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faewritesshit · 8 months

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This npc hurt/comfort drabble got away from me.

tw: panic attack, references to trauma

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It was late, almost closing time for Leslie. To be specific, it was 11:47pm on a Wednesday, and they were staring at the rack of postcards next to the register again. Stuck staring at the spot that it happened. The rain was drumming rhythmically against the wide front windows created a haze of background noise to their zoning out. It had been a month, but their bones still ached at times. Usually late at night, when they were alone. Nights like tonight. A throb of pain bounced dully around their jaw, an echo of the pain of feeling it crack and shift out of place. A tightening knot began to form in their stomach, and their vision tunnel, focused on the spot on the ground. The faint memory of the rage, the clawing hunger, the pain of their body reshaping itself, and the bloodlust that didn't belong to them. It was hard to take in air, as their chest constricted, short breaths becoming more rapid as the beginnings of a panic attack was taking hold.

Then, the door to the grocery store flew open, sending the bell above ringing loudly, and the door slamming against the wall. Leslie jumped at the sudden noise, feeling rushing it's way back into their extremities. Looking up, feeling their heart thrumming violently, they were surprised to see Micah. The newest member of the weekly support group, a short boy with roughly cut dark hair. He had been quiet the two times he had shown up, and hadn’t shared what he had gone through yet, and tonight, he didn’t look good. Wild eyes, soaked to the bone from the now torrential rain. He was trembling, standing frozen, dripping on the entry mat. He jumped at the sound of the door closing behind him, letting out a small yelp, his hands moving quickly to shield his face.

Leslie was across the room in mere moments. They knew the feeling of what he was going through. Holding their hands out in front of them, Leslie made sure to move slowly, and keep their voice soft.

“Micah?” He didn’t jump at the sound of their voice, but his eyes did start to focus on their face. “Hey- hey, you’re okay.”

“I’m sorry,” were the first words that he spoke. It was barely audible, a hoarse whisper. “Sorry, I- I d- I didn’t mean-” His teeth were chattering, stuttering out whispered apologies.

“It’s okay.” They took a tentative step closer, and held out a hand, a silent question. Micah nodded, small but rapid. “Come inside, you’re freezing.” Leslie closed the distance between them, putting a hand on his arm, shifting to around his shoulders as they guided him farther inside the store.

Micah’s head fell against their collarbone as he was led inside, he kept his arms curled close to his chest, half for comfort, half for warmth. He didn’t exactly know where he was, at some point on his way here, he stopped being able to process his surroundings. It was his intention to get here, but this certainly wasn’t the state he was hoping to be in when he got there. All he wanted was someone to talk to. It was another night where he couldn’t sleep, and his restlessness had started to bother his roommate, who was actually trying to sleep. Leslie seemed nice, and was the only one he knew would be awake, and knew where they would be. Suddenly, he found himself in a chair, a sweater being thrown over his shoulders. Across the room now, Leslie was clicking off the neon ‘open’ sign that hung in the shop window, flicking off the front lights. Micah was trying to regain control over his breathing, but it wasn’t going well, his chest was too tight, he was starting to feel dizzy.

This was one of his worse nights. It hadn’t been this bad when he left the dorms. The sound of a radio crackling inside of a bar as he passed had set him off. The high pitched tone that crackled and seemed to scrape the inside of his brain and bounce off the walls of his skull. That was when he had started running. All of a sudden he was back in the broadcast building, the sound of Sarah’s voice echoing through the building, soothing but somehow wrong in a way that twisted his stomach and wormed its way into his brain. Then there was the gunshot, and the screeching sound of the busted speaker before the walls started to crack as those things started to force their way out. He could feel those things behind him as he ran, reaching, racing, twisting their way around his chest and reaching up to constrict his throat. Then, Leslie was in front of him again, forcing themself directly into his line of sight. His eyes struggled to focus. Warmth spread through his ice cold fingers as he realized that they were enveloped in Leslie’s hands, gently squeezing the warmth back into them.

“Hey, stay with me.” Their voice was soft, and their hands gently squeezed his again. This time, he shifted his hands to squeeze back. “Just breathe. The doors are locked. We’re safe.”

It took some time, but slowly, he started to calm down as Leslie continued to whisper a mantra of reassurance, gently coaxing him down from the panic. Eventually, he was back in control of his breathing, but still shivering. Leslie hadn’t asked any questions, and for that, he was grateful. He made the right choice to come here.

After the first ten minutes, Leslie had settled themself onto the ground in front of the small chair they kept tucked behind the counter, legs crossed underneath them. Micah’s eyes finally looked more focused, clearer and less wild. Their careful, practiced reassurances were memorized by now. It wasn’t uncommon for Olive to show up on their doorstep in a similar state, late at night. They’ve had a lot of practice this past month. When Micah’s breathing finally settled into a steady, slower rhythm, Leslie felt it was safe to continue.

“Hey,” they started gently, waiting until Micah met their eyes, and gave a small nod. “You okay to make it up some stairs?” He looked confused, but gave a small nod, and finally, a noise of confirmation.

Leslie finally let go of his hands, and almost immediately, Micah was missing the warmth. As Leslie unfolded their legs, and stood up to shake the sleep out of them, curling his chilled fingers into his palms, Micah followed suit in standing up. He took it slowly, making sure he was steady on his feet before following Leslie through the door into the back, keeping a few feet behind as Leslie unlocked another door, and ushered him through the door and into a small landing that led to a steep set of stairs. The click of the lock re-engaging helped to settle Micah’s frayed nerves. Again, he followed cautiously behind Leslie.

At the top of the stairs, another door led into the second story apartment. It was messy in a lived in way, the open concept kitchen and living room was filled with mismatched, secondhand furniture. Dishes were scattered between the sink and the small kitchen island, and a few fleece tie blankets were crumpled in the corners of the couch, one folded across the back of a well loved armchair. It was nice, it felt warm, and suddenly incredibly personal. He was brought back to the present moment, drawn away from studying the room by Leslie clearing their throat. They had a hand held out to him, and all he could do was look at it a bit dumbly.

“Can I have your jacket?” They were still maintaining the soft tone from before. “The sweater, too?”

He didn’t have the higher brain function to refuse, so he did what was asked, peeling the wet fabric off of his body. Immediately, the shiver came back, racking his body and sending goosebumps blossoming across his skin. A hand was on his arm, a point of warmth grounding him as he let himself be ushered inside. Leslie placed him in the kitchen before disappearing down a hallway, and he was left alone. The panic was gone, and he was left drained and a bit numb. He was swaying a bit on his feet, but he was aware enough now to notice when Leslie reentered the room, a bundle of fabric in their hands.

“You’ve gotta warm up.” They sounded worried again. “Can’t have you catching a cold on my watch.”

All Micah could do was nod, and take the clothes out of their hands. Leslie led him to the bathroom, ushering him inside before closing the door. He knew that Leslie had given him instructions on how the shower works, but he certainly didn’t comprehend it. The bathroom was cluttered, the counter busy with various items and products, and two towels hung from hooks on the wall. Eventually, he figured out the shower, and managed to peel the rest of his soaked clothes off and step into the steaming stream of water.

Leslie let out a sigh, finally relaxing as they heard the shower start up. It was 12:24am when they made their way into the kitchen, and flicked the electric kettle on before shuffling the abandoned dishes from the island to the sink. It had clicked itself off by the time they had gathered the various cups from around the living room. Methodically, they started the practiced task of preparing two cups of tea. They didn’t know how Micah took his tea, so they settled for setting out a bottle of honey and a container of sugar. They were digging around in the fridge for the carton of milk when they heard the shower shut off. The door clicked open by the time they had finished doctoring their own cup. Micah rounded the corner hesitantly, he looked exhausted, head tucked, the bundle of half dried clothing clutched close to his chest. The borrowed clothes were too big, making Micah look small, dwarfed by the well worn sleeping shirt and loose fitting sweat pants.

“Have a seat wherever,” Leslie instructed as they crossed the room to him. “I’ll toss your clothes in the dryer.”

“Th- thank you.” It was still a whisper as he handed over the clothes. He was talking again, that was a good sign.

By the time Leslie got back to the kitchen, Micah had settled himself into a stool at the island, and had his hands wrapped around the mug set out for him. He looked up when Leslie came back, but only met their eyes for a moment before looking back down at the mug. His brief smile came off as more of a grimace, but it was an attempt. Leslie picked up their own cup and took a long drink from it, letting the silence settle over them, and Micah did the same.

“Sorry-” Micah was the one to break the silence. “Sorry for just showing up like that.” His voice was still hoarse. Raw from the hyperventilating.

“How frequent have they been?” Leslie dismissed the apology.

There was a beat where Micah took a deep breath before responding, breathing in the steam from his mug. “Almost every day.” He admitted. “It’s only been a few weeks since…” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought. Not yet.

A hum of acknowledgement. Micah couldn’t bring himself to meet Leslie’s eyes, but could feel himself being watched. “We all get them.” It was a statement, a fact. “They’ll get better. Easier.”

Micah kept his eyes down as he felt the stinging prickle of tears welling in his eyes. The exhaustion was wearing him down. “Haven’t been sleeping much. Doesn’t really help.”

“You’re staying the night.” It was another statement, said like it was a well known fact. Micah tensed immediately. “The couch pulls out,” Leslie continued. “I don’t think either of us want you walking back in the dark.”

And, they weren’t wrong. The thought of heading back out into the dark, and the pelting rain sent a shiver down his spine. He still didn’t have the energy to put up a fight. “Thank you.” He managed, forcing the words around the building tightness in his throat. Blinking away the blur in his vision, he managed to look up at Leslie. They watching him carefully, making sure he was okay. The look on their face was enough for him to know that they had been in his place before, shaky hands clutching a warm mug like it’s a lifeline. He took a slow drink, letting himself feel the warmth spread through his chest. Leslie again hummed in acknowledgement, and just gave him a nod.

They both were quiet for a while, the chamomile warming them from the inside out, thawing the last of the ice from his veins, and easing the tension in the room. Leslie’s cup was emptied first, and they settled themself against the counter behind them.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” They broached the subject gently, the soft, quiet tone back in their voice.

“No.” The answer was quick, too quick, and Micah reflexively flinched at his own answer. “I don’t- Maybe, I don’t know.” It felt like an admission of defeat, and he set the mug down, running his hands over his face.

“You don’t have to.” Leslie was moving, and Micah removed his hands to watch their movements, too anxious to not know where they were around him. They were getting the couch set up, carefully removing the cushions and pulling the frame out from the inside.

“I didn’t mean to come here, not like… that.” Leslie didn’t look over, continuing their task.

“I had assumed that much.” It was a reassuring tone.

“I just couldn’t sleep. Didn’t wanna be alone, and you’re usually awake this late.” He took a deep breath. “Sorry if that isn’t, like, okay. I can not.”

“It’s fine.” They were pulling pillows out of an ottoman now and tossing them onto the half made bed.

“I was fine when I left, I don’t- I don’t know what happened.” It was a lie, but he was too far in now. “There was a noise, and then I just- I just ran. Then, I couldn’t stop, and it felt like they were there again, and I was back, and- and then I was… here, I guess.”

With blankets now tossed on the bed, Leslie finally looked back over to him. They nodded, making their way back over to the counter, putting their cup in the sink. “I’m glad you made it here.” It was soft, an honesty he had caught glimpses of tonight. “Sounds like you’ve had a shit night.”

That got a laugh out of him. It was an understatement, to say the least, but Leslie smiled back at him. They were taking it in stride, an attitude that only comes with experience. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s one word for it.”

“My first one was two days after.” They admitted it quietly, a private confession. “I don’t count the first day since I basically slept through it. Woke up from a night terror, couldn’t get out of it. The flashbacks are the worst for me. When you get stuck.” The last sentence was huffed out, more annoyed than distressed.

“Are they-” He didn’t know how to ask, exactly. “Are they going to happen a lot?”

“Maybe. For me, the first two weeks were the worst. I was hurt, it was real bad, and any pain just… reminded me.” Their eyes drifted, unfocused, and it took a moment for them to come back to the moment. “I suggest staying around people as much as you can. Hanging around people you know helps, from my experience. The coffee shop always has someone around who gets it.”

“Would you mind if-” the question was halfway out before he realized he didn’t want to ask it. “If I hang around you, a bit?” A moment of silence hung in the air for a moment, sending a pang of anxiety down Micah’s spine.

“Nah.” They said it with a shrug. “I don’t mind. As long as you don’t mind the shop, I’m usually here.”

“I don’t.” Wash of relief spread over him, easing the tension in his shoulders. He was tired, but more lucid now, and he could see the exhaustion etched on their face. A glance at the clock told him they had reached 1:30am now, and a twist of guilt settled in his gut.

“Great,” It was tired, but light. Genuine. “Then I’ll… see you in the morning?”

“Yeah.” Micah hurried to stand, walking the cup over to Leslie, letting them set it in the sink. “See you in the morning.”

Before Micah knew it, he was wrapped in Leslie’s arms, pulled against their chest. He wasn’t usually a hugger, but he let himself melt into the embrace, wrapping his arms around them, trying not to hold too tightly onto the back of their shirt. There would be time to be embarrassed about it tomorrow. For now, he clung to the contact, feeling small, but feeling safe for the first time in a few days, at least.

When they finally separated, Leslie held him at arms length for a moment, making him look them in the eye, giving him a soft smile. “If you need anything, just knock, okay? I’m a light sleeper.” They didn’t let him go until he had nodded, agreeing to their terms. “Keep any lights you want on.”

“Thank you, again.” Even if Leslie didn’t think much of it, he needed to say it. Leslie actually rolled their eyes at it this time.

“Anytime.” They meant it. They both knew it. “Goodnight, Micah.”

“Yeah, goodnight.” He watched as Leslie left the kitchen, and didn’t move from next to the sink until he heard a door click closed. “See you tomorrow.”

#oc writing #drabble #hurt/comfort #fluff #oc drabbles #oc ship #oc #ferrough tag #dunno if i'll keep ferrough tag #i am embarrassed of myself #god forbid people know i write things for fun #leslie/micah

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littlepadika · 3 years

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Calling Home (1) | Frankie Morales x Reader

Summary: You are a receptionist at the VA. Frankie Morales keeps calling. Yearning ensues...

Rating: M -> E in later chapters

Warnings: fem!reader, age gap (legal), praise kink, voice kink, discussion of addiction/PTSD/trauma, no use of y/n, no beta reader, reader is bad at Spanish, Frankie has a sexy voice 😩

Masterlist here

AN: My first fic. Pedro writers have inspired me to finally start writing again 🥺. Concept inspired by the movie RED. I hope you like it ❤️Set after triple frontier.

Chapter One

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The first time he called was an ordinary Thursday.

“Veterans Affairs, how can I help you?”

You had been working at the VA office for about two weeks. Fresh out of college you felt lucky to have a job in the first place. You went to school to be a writer but your big idea for 'The Next Great American Novel' had yet to present itself. At least here you had access to the most inspiring stories and interesting people. Men and women who had seen more and done more than you probably would in your entire life. You loved talking to clients on the phone. It was weird but something about only being able to hear people’s voices excited you. You would sometimes write little stories in your head about the people you'd talk to, filling in the details that were unknown.

Your desk accessories reflected your love of books and writing. You had your growing collection of books sitting on your desk sandwiched between baby pink bookends. Next to them was a matching desk organizer filled with your favorite sparkly pens and sticky notes. You had decorated the plain cubicle walls with posters of quotes from your favorite books. You also brought your favorite candle from home. Even though you couldn’t light it you still liked to lift it to your nose once and a while and smell it between chapters. When you weren’t on the phone or scanning documents you would read. You finished To Kill A Mockingbird in your first week on the job and were now halfway through Murder on the Orient Express.

You were starting a new chapter when Frankie Morales called the first time.

You picked up the phone on the second ring already mustering your chipper 'customer service' voice. “Veterans affairs.” You stated your name. “How may I help you?”

“H-Hi. My name is Frankie- uh-Francisco Morales." A deep voice answered you. "I’m calling because I have gotten my benefits check yet. It’s been a month. I was hoping you could tell me if it got sent?”

“Okay Mr. Morales." You flipped on the computer. "Let me check. Can you spell your last name for me?”

“M-o-r-a-l-e-s”

“Okay... let's see.” You clicked on his account. You were momentarily distracted by his picture likely taken when he graduated basic if you had to guess based off the uniform. He looked sweet. Sharp nose and strong jaw balanced by kind eyes and a shy smile. You could imagine how age would continue to soften his expression making him even more handsome. The image was a strange juxtaposition to the voice you were hearing on the phone which was much deeper and rougher. His profile said he was special forces. A pilot. The rest of the information was blacked out. Something you were used to seeing on many people's accounts but even his years of service were redacted. He must have been involved in some dangerous stuff, you thought to yourself. The dates that were not redacted were mostly in Latin America. You clicked over to processing requests. “Looks like the check got sent one week ago.” You informed him.

"I'll look again but I haven't seen anything-" It sounded like he was apologizing when clearly it was not his fault.

"No no. It's probably a mistake on our end." You interrupted. With how shitty and outdated the payroll interface was you wouldn't be surprised if there was a mix up. "I’ll go ahead and let payroll know to send another."

"Great. Thanks." He replied sounding relieved. The roughness in his voice gave way to a smooth baritone.

“No problem. I'm sorry for any inconvenience it may have caused. We'll get it sent right away." You hoped he was not relying on this benefit check for anything important. While you could promise you'd fix the problem, the administration was notoriously slow. When he didn't respond you asked, "Is there anything else I can help you with today, Mr. Morales?”

“Uh-no" The roughness back in place. "Thank you." He paused before adding your name onto his thank you which made you smile. People usually never remembered your name.

“Alright. Have a nice day and thank you for your service.” You chirped before hanging up. The smile he put on your face lingered for a few minutes as you returned to your book.

The next time he called was exactly twelve days later.

“Veterans affairs” you answered, your routine greeting cut short as your eyes were still on your book.

“Hi- I’m calling because uh I still haven’t gotten my benefits check. This is Frankie Morales.”

“Oh Mr. Morales.” You recognized his voice even before he even said his name. You quickly shut your book, pushing your hair out of your face. Had you been thinking about him? No! Okay maybe you stared at his picture for a few minutes longer after he hung up. Yes, it was probably very unprofessional but you couldn't fight the curiosity. You were trying to rationalize the contrasting sharpness and softness of his features with his voice. How it all worked together. How one person's voice could change textures and colors so easily. You wondered what kind of things this man might have seen on the job. Most of the veterans you would help day to day did not have so many redacted missions and deployments. You were in the middle of Narcos season one so you immediately thought of drugs or something equally dangerous. After much pondering, you had come to the conclusion that Frankie Morales was both insanely attractive and insanely courageous. “Still no check, huh?”

“Nope.” He sighed the sound making the phone's shitty speaker crackle as you held it to your ear.

“Let me just check that it was approved...“ you found his profile again and scrolled to the status page. “Hmm... it says it was sent out last Friday after we spoke. That’s so weird...”

“Yeah. Really weird.” He echoed your frustration on the other end.

Typical payroll, you thought to yourself as you rolled your eyes. “I'll get another one sent to you right away. I'll see to it myself.” You tucked the phone under your chin and typed out a short email to Mary in payroll letting her know you'd be stopping by her office to explain the situation. You realized he hadn't hung up yet.

“Sorry for the back and forth.” You said, trying to fill the silence.

“It’s not your fault." The earlier irritation gone. "You’ve been really helpful.” His voice sounded warm and reassuring. Less gruff than it was last you spoke. Instead it was that rich baritone that you caught of glimpse of last time.

You feel your face warm at his compliment. It was this annoying reflex you had. Praise always made you blush no matter what context but it was worse when it came from a (you assume) gorgeous stranger.

“And just to verify that your address is correct- you’re on Maple Lane in Miami, Florida?”

“That’s right.” He confirmed.

“Okay. Sent!” You clicked send on the email, which caused the window to close and reveal Frankie’s profile page again. “I was curious-" You spoke before you really made the decision to speak. You didn’t want to overstep but once again your curiosity got the better of you. Honestly, you were just searching for a way to keep him on the phone. The day had been so boring.

“Your profile says you were stationed in Costa Rica.”

“For a bit.” He replied after a moment. He didn’t sound too defensive but there was definitely some tightness in his answer that made you feel bad for asking. Like you were scratching a wound.

“Did you like it? The country I mean.”

“Are you planning a trip?” He sounds a little amused.

“Yeah- well- kind of. It's more a trip in my head right now. I’d like to go there one day. It looks so beautiful.” You sighed closing your eyes trying to imagine the heat on your skin.

“It is." He agrees. "Really humid though.”

“Mm that sounds nice.” You would kill for some warm weather after such a long winter in DC.

“It was too muggy for me at times." He grumbled. "If you do go, stick to the costal areas where it’s more breezy or else you’ll just be sweating the whole time.”

“I don’t mind a little sweat” you shrugged, still thinking of the awful east coast winter you were currently suffering through. The sexual connotation of what you said hit you hard as soon as you heard the statement in its entirety. You felt your face flush again, though the man on the other end would never know.

“I’m learning Spanish!" You announced loudly trying to move the conversation past your awkwardness.

“Wow. Muy impressivo.”

“Si” you replied but after a moment you admit “I don’t really know what you said.”

Frankie laughed loudly on the other end and you couldn’t help but join in, drawing dirty looks from the elderly lady, Donna, working in the cubicle across from you. You ducked your head behind a stack of papers to avoid her glare.

“Fake it till you make it.” He chuckled.

“Maybe you should help me out.” You took on an indigent but still playful tone. “You sound better than duolingo” Your smile widened when he laughed again. His laugh was what you hoped it would be, by all your assumptions from his picture. It was an unencumbered, unburdened, rich sound with only a hit of roughness from the air behind it.

“Tell me you’re not using that dumb app to learn.” he scoffed, saying your name in an almost scolding tone.

“I’m got my thirty day streak today.” You boasted.

“You’ll be a total tourist if you go by duolingo.”

“But the owl is so cute every time I get something right!” You argued your voice taking on a more childish cadence.

“That’s how they trap you, silly girl.” He teased right back. Usually such a condescending nickname would piss you off but something about the affection behind him using it made you feel very differently. You felt warm like you were proud to be silly as long as it made him laugh.

“Then you saved me just in time, Mr. Morales.” You bit your lip. His scoffing and laughter died down on the other end.

“Frankie” He corrects you.

“Frankie…” You repeated it, smiling at how well the nick name suited the voice over the phone. Honest, sincere, and not pretentious at all. Way better than the pompous guys you know with equally stuffy names like “Edward” and “Christopher.”

“So what do you want to know?” Frankie interrupted your thoughts. “Dime”

You started asking him questions in Spanish to the best of your ability. Granted they weren't particularly probing questions. What is your name? What is your favorite color? What is your favorite animal? What's your favorite book? I am reading Gone Girl. He answered them all with patience and amusement, occasionally interrupting you to correct your pronunciation or explain what a word meant. Every time you’d repeat the word back correctly he would say something like “good” or “there you go” or “you got it”. You hated to admit that his kind words and his praise was doing something to you. You didn't even realize you were clenching your legs together unconsciously, almost in anticipation of his next correction or next answer. His low voice so sweet and encouraging against your ear, more tangible when he was speaking Spanish. You just wanted to hear more of it. Would it be this sweet in other situations? Would it get huskier or rougher? If you closed your eyes it was like he was sitting right next to you. It would be all too easy to slip into that daydream and escape the dull office.

Suddenly out of the corner of your drooping eyes you saw a flashing red light on the phone console meaning another caller was waiting.

“Shoot- i’m sorry, Frankie- I have to take this call.” You shot forward in your chair, legs uncrossing.

“Of-Of course. I should let you get back to work.” He sounded a little sad or so you hoped. You felt bad for interrupting him after you both were having so much fun. You wanted to say he could wait on hold but he killed that idea when he said, "I have work too. Technically I'm five minutes past my lunch break."

Your pout turned to a smile. He was spending his precious lunch break with you? Get a grip! you snapped at yourself.

“You’re welcome to call again if you want.” You threw out the offer in a small voice, scared you would be rejected. You peered over the cubicle wall to see if you were still being glared at. Thankfully Donna was away from her desk. Probably out for a smoke. “It’s really boring here and usually no one calls.”

“Maybe I will.” He replied and you could hear the smile behind those words. You felt your heart clench weirdly in your chest like it didn't know how to process the sudden spike in emotions.

“Bye, Frankie.” You beamed.

“Bye”

This time the smile on your face lasted for hours. Frankie’s laugh echoed around in your head, taunting you, sending your mind to the gutter. His voice went from grit to molasses on a dime. You wanted to be the one to bring out those sounds. You wanted to hear his voice bend and stretch and strain as you fucked him. What the hell is wrong with me? you screamed internally. You had never been so depraved and with a stranger no less! You clearly needed to get laid fast because this much yearning would not end well.

Frankie got the second VA check a few days later and this time he didn’t even feel bad about ripping it in half. He was already reaching for the phone to call you.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Tags: Message to be added 💕 no minors please!

#frankie morales #francisco morales #triple frontier #pedro pascal #frankie morales x reader #frankie catfish morales #pedro pascal x reader #frankie morales x you #triple frontier fanfiction #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x y/n #frankie morales x y/n #catfish morales #calling home series #i would die for frankie #frankie morales has a sexy voice #daddy!frankie

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hopelesshawks · 3 years

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Ash and Dust Part 7- Opportunities

18+ Dabi x fem!reader

Summary: You first meet Dabi on the worst night of your life after unwittingly walking into the very bar the League of Villains made infamous. That should probably be the end of the story. You stumble on the remnants of one of the most infamous terrorist groups in the history of Japan, get viciously murdered or call the cops and get them arrested, the end. Except that’s not the end of the story. It’s only the beginning.

Masterlist Help Lulu (Kofi)

Waking up the morning after reclaiming your bedroom (at least in part) is jarring for two reasons.

The first is that you’re waking up next to Dabi.

For some reason you thought he might wake up before you, even though he’s pretty routinely demonstrated that he’s not an early riser. Perhaps you expected the knowledge that he was sleeping in the same bed as you to perturb him enough to get him up early. Instead your eyelashes had fluttered open to find him still deeply asleep with his face only a few inches from yours.

You fully intended on simply rolling over to either fall back asleep or get on with your day but you’d found yourself enthralled with his sleeping face instead. You know Dabi’s smirks, sneers, and scowls like the back of your hand after a little over a month of living with him. His resting face, however, is entirely foreign to you. You’ve never had a moment alone with him where he wasn’t antagonizing you and it’s odd to see him so peaceful. Your eyes trace over his face, taking in the extent of the scarring on his jaw and beneath his eyes, but also appreciating the unmarred expanses of skin as well. It strikes you that Dabi is pretty. It shouldn’t be surprising considering what you’ve seen of the youngest Todoroki in the press but even still. In another world where he’d never become the wanted criminal he is today, you wonder if he’d be a heartbreaker or a sweet, gentle type. Would he be as quiet and polite as his brother seems to be or would he still get a thrill from bantering with someone who isn’t afraid to banter right back? Would he be in the tabloids with a different girl every week or settle down early with his high school sweetheart? You’re fascinated by the idea of what the scarred man before you would be without the tragedy and the trauma. You might’ve sat there just taking him in until he woke up if not for the second reason waking up that morning was so jarring.

Your phone has been pinging literally non-stop.

You’ve never resented your notification sound more as its shrill tone continues to echo in your room, putting the fragile peace at risk. Even before you found yourself as alone as you are now your phone was never this busy. As much as you try to ignore it and wait for the tidal wave of what you assume are spam notifications to end, the sound finally drives you to turn over and grab it. Your eyes widen as you take in the sheer amount of Twitter notifications you have. As you unlock your phone and navigate over to the app your mentions are literally flooded with Deku fans screaming about your talent and how lucky you are. It’s a confusing litany of fangirling that you try to weed through until you get to one mention in particular that makes your breath catch in your throat.

You got a mention from the rising hero himself.

Holy shit.

You’ve never clicked a tweet so quickly in your entire life. Not only are you stunned to find he’s seen and loved your work but he also mentions wanting to talk if you’re interested. Sure enough, when you navigate over to the messages section of the app, a feature you’ve never bothered to use, you notice a message request from Midoriya ‘Deku’ Izuku waiting for you. It takes everything in you not to scream as you read the message there over and over before finally hopping out of bed and moving to the kitchen to call the number he’d left you. It’s a little endearing that he’d been so quick to hand out his number to a complete stranger on the internet but you also can’t help but wonder how someone so naive could be the same man drawing headlines over his heroics and combat skill. You’re not exactly a Deku fangirl but it’s still wild to be dialing a celebrity’s number as you punch in the numbers and then wait for it to ring.

On literally the second ring the phone is answered. “Pro Hero Deku at your service! Who’s calling?” the young man answers chirpily. “Uhh, this is (y/l/n)? You messaged me on twitter?” “Oh! Right! Yes! Hello! One second!”

You can hear Deku excusing himself from whatever room he’s in, a disgruntled voice mumbling something you can’t hear, causing Deku to reply with a hushed “Sorry Kacchan! I’ll be right back!” before there’s more shuffling and finally the sound of a heavy door closing.

“Ok I’m back! Thanks for reaching out to me so quickly!” he finally says now that he’s, apparently, in a better place to talk.

“Yea, of course I guess I’m just shocked you liked my art so much and really appreciate you drawing so much attention to it,” you explain, feeling short of breath at how surreal the situation is.

“Of course! You’re really talented! Your work deserves to get attention!”

“Thank you but, uh, why exactly did you want me to call you?”

“Right! It’s about your artwork.”

“Ok?”

“I want to sell it!”

“What?”

“Wait well no not sell it. Or not sell that particular piece although it is a nice piece and if you wanted to theoretically you could probably sell it although I guess it’s available for free online already so maybe people wouldn’t want to pay for it. Although it’s a painting right? And people buy or pay to go see paintings you can see online all the time so maybe it wouldn’t be too bad but if it’s for your own enjoyment you may not want to give it up which would be totally understandable and also how would that work logistically? If the painting is rather large it may be unwieldy to try and ship it to whoever purchases it, in which case would you have to meet up to try and give it to them by hand? But then that necessitates meeting up with a complete stranger on the internet and what if the person who buys it doesn’t live near you or, since it is the internet, doesn’t even live in Japan? Then you have to contend with international shipping and-”

“Uhh, Deku?” you ask cautiously, barely able to process the mumbling of the young man on the phone.

“Ah! Sorry! I can kinda end up on tangents sometimes... What I mean to say is that I’m not trying to sell the painting you posted or anything but I think you’re really talented as an artist and one of my friends is looking for someone to design a new merch collection.”

One of his friends? Your mind instantly starts running through his impressive list of ex classmates. Your first thought is Dynamight and immediately you shudder at the idea. He may be years younger than you but the aggressive pro hero still scares the shit out of you. Uravity could be an interesting hero to work with although you’re not quite sure you vibe with her aesthetic. Or maybe he’s talking about the new Ingenium?

“You’re real fucking loud in the mornings, you know that Doll?” Dabi asks with a groan as he comes walking into the room with a stretch.

You hurry to shush him, not wanting to lose the opportunity being presented to you, which earns you a curious look. Before you can react Dabi is snatching your phone out of your hand and putting it on speaker. You don’t dare protest verbally and risk alerting Deku of the situation so you have to settle for glaring at Dabi as he smirks at you.

“Yea so, anyway, Shouto really needs new merch but wanted something a little more sophisticated on the designs and I feel like you’d be perfect for that you know? Making all his stuff mini works of art. So what do you say?” Deku asks, his voice still brimming with that same enthusiasm while your blood runs cold. You’re genuinely scared to look up at Dabi’s face to see what he thinks about the idea of you working with his little brother. You hold your breath, Deku’s chipper voice going nervous as he asks “Hello? You still there?”

To your immense surprise, when you finally have the courage to bring your eyes up to meet Dabi’s, he’s got an almost feral grin. “You better take the fucking job,” he hisses delightedly, sending a chill down your spine as you stutter out a response to Deku, your eyes never leaving Dabi’s.

“Yea, sorry just processing. I’d, uh, I’d be happy to help out.”

“Great! I’ll pass your number on to Shouto and you two can meet up and figure out details!”

“Ok.”

“Cool, thanks (y/l/n)! Hopefully I’ll see you around!”

You hum noncommittally before hanging up the phone, still waiting for the other shoe to drop as you practically watch the gears turning in Dabi’s head.

“You’re…. Not mad I’m going to be working with your brother?” you ask cautiously.

“Oh no, I’m fucking delighted Doll. You know why?”

“Why?”

“Because you’re gonna help me have a little fun.”

A/N: We are finally starting to get to the meat of the story omg. I’m sorry this fic has been so slow going, especially compared to my others, but if you stick with I’m pretty sure it’ll be worth it. I appreciate each and every one of y’all that’s been reading this fic because main motivation to write it has been hard

Taglist: @thechroniclesofawriter @simpsfortodoroki @ahtsuwu @oliviasslut @larkspyrr @oikawaandkuroostan @tina-98 @vibesdontlie @clubfairy

#hopelessad #dabi #dabi x y/n #dabi x fem!reader #touya todoroki #touya x y/n #touya x fem!reader

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midnightsnace · 3 years

Text

A Thousand Worlds

Summary: Fix it fic of sorts after the trauma that was episode 6 of the Loki series. Loki is in pain after discovering Mobius doesn’t remember him. He’s been living in apocalypses to avoid capture by this new TVA until he formulates a plan to get his Mobius back.

Rating: T for later chapters

Emotional angst.

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

“And so that’s where I grew up, the ends of a thousand worlds.”

The ends of a thousand worlds. The words of his accomplice echoed through the god’s mind as he fiddled with the straps of his worn and tattered holster. The fluorescent above him flickered with every gust of wind that battled against the sides of the building that Loki was crouched down in. He slid his long legs out against the tiled floor in front of him and sat with his head propped against the wall. He sighed. Loki tapped his foot on the door of the space he was hiding in to close it, drowning out the cries of fear from the people outside in their final hours of life. There he sat waiting for the tempad to charge. Alone. Living in another world where every person he met would be dead by the end of the day. Another world where Mobius didn’t exist. His Mobius.

Was this what it was like? For her? To never be able to stay in one place for more than a day? To always see the same faces riddled with fear as they awaited their painful fate? To only know destruction, screaming, fires, earthquakes, the literal gates of hel? To be utterly alone with your only desire to live in the hope that one day your glorious purpose would be fulfilled?

Glorious purpose.

Loki scoffed. The god didn’t know what his purpose was anymore. Taking down the TVA was a complete failure. The chances for fixing the mess they started seemed impossible now as branches grew and new timelines erupted, with endless TVAs to monitor every universe. At least, that’s what Loki assumed. He knew next to nothing about what they had unleashed. It wasn’t the same TVA. Different hunters, different analysts, different ruler. Many he recognized, but they were still different people. They weren’t the same. She wasn’t the real B. He wasn’t his Mobius. And Loki was at a complete loss on how to find them again.

The first tempad he stole only brought him back to the place he snatched it from. The same Time Variance Authority where Mobius didn’t remember him and not a single file existed for Loki Laufeyson, God of Mischief, God of Outcasts, God of Lies. Even when he dragged the analyst through the timedoor into the roxxcart parking lot to access his memories, nothing existed of him. No laughter over silly metaphors, mischief at pompeii, not even the memory of their first encounter in the elevator. It was like they never met. This led to Loki wasting away their days hopping from one disaster to the next until his brain racked up a solution. The TVA never once did follow him. Why would they? No one remembered his brilliant discovery about the apocalypses. He could run free. But as the days whittled by, the hope Loki had began to fade into nothingness.

For awhile he kept track of the places he went and the time that had passed.

Day 1 - I finally stole a tempad and left that dreadful place. I came here first. Hoping I’d see you. But I guess that’s not how time travel works in apocalypses. No trace we were ever here. The storm reminded me of my brother. I hope to see him again one day. Now that I know we could have been friends. Everything was eventually going to be okay.

Day 24 - I’ve been sitting in a coffee shop awaiting the earthquake of 2098. Met a lovely redhead with the most peculiar of tattoos. But alas! Little does she know this friendship could never blossom in the wake of death!

Day 37 - I miss him. My brother. The pain that solitude brings makes me think of home more often. How ironic that the very place that caused me the most pain I miss. But anything is better than this. So today I visited home right before its destruction. I saw my brother. I saw Thor from afar. Oh how I wish I could have talked to him somehow and tell him i’m sorry for being such an ass.

Being there brought back memories of the silly metaphor he made using Mobius’ lunch. The corners of Loki’s mouth crept into a smile at the thought. But that smile faded away in the next second and was replaced with tears.

Day 56 - I went to Pompeii again. I stood in the shadows. I tried to picture your expressions of skepticism at my insane ideas. I tried to picture how your face lit up with pride and joy when you realized I was right. I wish I could have stayed longer but I never can anywhere I go.

He whistled like a bird before he exited through the time door.

By day 125 he had lost his will to live again. It was their fourth visit to Lamentis-1. Perhaps it was a mistake on his part to journey here once more and feel both the pains of betrayal and heartache at the prospect of never seeing Mobius again. The second time they had visited Lamentis, the god decided to stay until the very last second with the false hope that maybe him facing death would create a nexus event. His mobius would come find him and save him at the last second. But the time door never came. Maybe it was because he knew there was a chance to escape and he could take it. Or maybe it was because there were so many time branches no one would care to fix a world that was about to end.

“You were always meant to be alone.”

And so this time Loki threw the tempad to the ground and waited. He watched as the lethal disaster unfolded before his eyes once more, ready to die. Alone. Alone with no one to assure him everything will be alright in the face of death. Not a single soul would know he was gone. No one would care.

But at the last second they saw something on the tempad that made them change their mind. A glimmer of hope.

Any hope Loki had, a glorious purpose he had left to fulfill, it was in finding Mobius. It was the only desire left that fueled him to keep existing. He was all that mattered. His only friend. The only person left among the universes who trusted him and saw beyond his flaws. The only person left who hadn’t betrayed the fragile levels of trust the god could give. He was his hope that one day, he wouldn’t have to be alone.

And so he found himself walking the streets of New York in the summer of 2197, on the brink of some disaster he knew nothing about. Not a single idea when it would happen, where it would occur, and what he was doomed to witness. He saw something that could potentially lead him to his destination. The tempad had given him an alert for an aura match - two of the same people in one place. An oddity. Something that wasn’t supposed to exist.

They weren’t just any entity either. They were registered hunters in the TVA database. Which meant one had to be from another universe.

And he knew the TVA would be coming for them.

He had to get there first.

Loki speed walked down the sidewalk frantically scanning his surroundings for any clue as to what was happening. He couldn’t read any signs of fear or confusion on the faces of those who passed him. He didn’t know how much time he had.

Upon hearing shouts of anger, Loki broke out into a run across the street towards the source, dodging every dystopian vehicle that nearly collided with him in the process. It was coming from the roof of the parking tower. With a snap of his magic, Loki teleported himself to the top, hiding behind a parked vehicle to assess what he was working with.

There were two agents standing about 10 feet away who looked nearly identical, one waving her arms frantically while the other looked on stoically, possibly from shock, with a pruning stick in hand. Loki locked eyes on the tempad fastened to the belt of the frantic one. Then he glanced at the one in the other hunter’s hand.

Well shit.

Now he had to figure out which agent had jumped from the other timeline. He quickly flashed himself closer to the two, but not before one caught on that someone was there.

“I was given orders by a man to…what was that?” one of the hunters asked.

Loki crouched down farther on the other side of the wall. He reached for a dagger, ready to pounce once their suspicions subsided. They listened intently to the words from the first hunter for the first clue on who to attack.

“He sent me here to grab this,” the hunter pulled up someone on her tempad, “entity and leave. Those were the orders given to me. So if you’ll excuse me.”

The other hunter planted herself in front of her clone. “I can’t let you do that. Not until you’ve told me everything I want to know. How are you me? How is this possible?”

The first hunter was from an alternate timeline. Loki took that as his cue. But before he could sneak behind the hunter, he was shot backwards by a blast of energy from a ring of light.

Out from the ring stepped a peculiar man with graying hair who was wearing blue robes and an assymetrical cloak that sparked the curiosity of the confused hunter. Within a split second, the portal closed behind him. Loki laid very still on the concrete and held his breath in the hopes that the man would believe him to be dead.

“You know I can tell when someone is playing dead.”

Loki grimaced and winced as he heaved himself off the ground. He came face to face with the strange man, his hand lingering in the air where he placed the pocket for his dagger.

“You.” was all the man said.

“Am I supposed to know you?” the god questioned.

“You always manage to show up in New York again at the most in-opportune times.” The man raised his hands and Loki mimicked his movements, summoning his daggers in place.

“I’m gonna assume we’ve met before sir, perhaps in the future? I don’t know! And i’m terribly sorry about New York! Look let me explain…” they lowered their hands in their attempt to make peace with the angry man in front of him.

“Dr. Strange.” He kept his fist in the air, golden sparks flying from whatever spell he had in mind to attack the prince with. “And until you prove otherwise Im going to assume you are here for hostile reasons.”

Loki blinked. Well he’s kind of not wrong, they thought.

“Well I’m afraid I can’t prove anything else.” and with that the god blasted the sorcerer into the nearest column with their magic and teleported across the space.

Loki noticed that one of the hunters had disappeared. He assumed she had returned to the TVA. The other was charging towards him fast. He whipped out his daggers to face his attacker, but suddenly his feet were dragged out from under him and he hit the concrete hard. He was being dragged backwards, body scrapping against the concrete. So fast, that the god could barely think about what was happening to him.

When he came to his senses he cut the magic ropes with his powers and rolled across the ground. So he was dealing with another magic user, this “Dr. Strange.” Loki teleported again before he was up on his feet to where he was standing directly behind the hunter.

“D-11…” Dr. Strange said with a hint of caution in his tone.

So this was the man Hunter D-11 was working for. Before the hunter could turn around to face them, Loki snatched the tempad off her belt and snapped himself to the furthest side of the building. Dr. Strange reacted quickly and stood his ground in front of Loki, prepared to attack again.

“Loki, perhaps we can work out some type of deal. What is it that you want? Maybe I can help you. Maybe we can reach a compromise.”

Offer him a deal? Nah.

“I’m done trusting people I’ve just met. All they ever do is stab me in the back.” he conjured the time door behind him.

Strange titled his head. “You do realize we can follow you right straight back to the TVA?”

Loki turned to face him and D-11. “You’ll never find me. You won’t know the first place to look.” The time door closed with Loki inside of it, before the two even had a chance to reach their hands out to follow the god.

…….

And that’s how Loki had ended up here. At Roxxcart again, waiting for the new tempad to charge up before hopping through timelines again.

He breathed in deeply as he felt the bubble of excitement, relief, and happiness build in his chest for the first time in months at the prospect of achieving his goal. Being reunited with the only one who mattered: Mobius. His Mobius.

But as he released his breath in a sigh, his chest tightened again and worry clouded his mind. What if this didn’t work? What if this was just another dead end? What if this was just another one of the countless TVAs that might exist in the vast multiverse?

At first, all Loki felt was sadness and regret in the days following Sylvie’s betrayal. But now all he felt was anger boiling deep inside him. That same unwelcome feeling he experienced after discovering his father lied to him. The feeling that harbored in the abyss of Thanos’ chambers. The feeling that never left his soul until Mobius looked him in the eyes and assured him that he didn’t have to be the villain in his story.

She had taken everything from him and he was afraid he couldn’t wash away the resentment this time. He wanted desperately to feel anything besides the pain he had known for the past year.

He needed to feel love again.

“He cares about you.”

Loki couldn’t wait any longer. He picked up the tempad and tapped the time door request for the TVA home base. He drew in a shaky breath as he paused in front of the portal.

This was it.

He was either about to be reunited with his greatest source of happiness, or find himself hiding in apocalypses again for months as he searched for another plan.

And he would do it. He would search through a thousand worlds to find him.

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ashintheairlikesnow · 3 years

Text

The Fight

CW: Ableism against a child, references to attempted noncon/assault of a survivor, religious references to the Bible, conditioning, trauma recovery, trauma response

TIMELINE: Immediately post-Creepy Pet Lib Guy. Links in piece.

She hears his footsteps, the soft motion of him through the living room and into the den, where a single lamp is on in the corner on the side table next to the old couch Paul never could bear to throw out. Ronnie doesn’t look over at him, instead picking at a bit of duct tape affixed over a ripped spot while sipping her beer straight from the bottle.

There’s a show on the television - they have a new one finally, but Ronnie’s never thrown out a damn thing that wasn’t broken just because it got replaced and she’s not about to start now, so she moved it in here - but she’s not watching it. Not even sure what the show is, only that the laugh track is tinny and never seems timed to the moments of actual humor.

The house is mostly silent, this late at night. There’s no sound but the occasional gurgle from the ice machine in the fridge, the soft hum of electronics that she never notices except when the power goes out, and then only because of its sudden absence.

No sound but the television’s off-key laughter and the footsteps of her son, creeping up behind her.

“Mommy?” His voice is so high and soft, fuzzy with sleepiness, and she turns with a tired smile to see him dragging his favorite blanket behind him along the floor. It’s a quilt she bought at a church’s Christmas market when he was two, and it had buttons sewn in with the patches, giving the cats the quilt is decorated with three-dimensional button eyes.

His face is rounded and so like his father’s, even so, his face and eyes and his hair are all Paul’s, through and through. He’s an echo, a clone of his father, in a lot of ways… up to and including navigating a world that has already labeled him as difficult, and he’s only six years old.

“Hey, baby. What are you doing up?” She’s twenty-three with a six year old son, and doesn’t that seem strange, some days? So many of her friends from high school are still out until dawn, posting photos of their drunken shenanigans on Facebook, and here Ronnie sits… twenty-three, with a husband who works nights, and a six-year-old son whose teacher calls him hopeless, right to his fucking face.

“I, I, I had a bad dream,” He says, and his eyes are so, so big in his small round face. Paul’s eyes are like that, big and green and soulful. She’d fallen into them, her junior year, and she’d never wanted to climb back out. No matter that her friends thought he was weird, no matter that yeah, okay, he is weird - he’s her kind of weird, and she and Paul understood each other right from the start.

“Oh, no.” She pats the couch cushion beside her and he clambers almost eagerly up to tuck himself in beside her. Her throat nearly closes as he carefully spreads his blanket out to cover them both, the simple gesture of care and love. How do you look this boy in the eyes and tell him he can’t do something? “What was your bad dream about, do you want to tell me?”

“Monsters,” He says, as if that single word relays all the information she could possibly need. Maybe it does, really - at least the monsters her son dreams about are easier to vanquish than the ones Ronnie has to help him learn how to face on his own as he grows.

“Good thing I monster-proofed this house before we moved in,” Ronnie teases. She moves her arm around his shoulders and he smiles, faintly, eyes closing as he leans his head against her collarbone, his ear right where he’s always wanted it, ever since birth - over her heart. Listening to her heartbeat. Sure enough, his fingers find their way to her stomach and start to tap in time with it, and Ronnie sips her beer again.

“Monsters aren’t, aren’t, aren’t real, actually,” He says, speaking quietly and without opening her eyes, and Ronnie thinks if her six-year-old well, actuallys her one more time… she read all the parenting books and has a whole shelf of parenting memoirs she’s picked up and not a single one mentioned that little kids are fucking know-it-alls. Not one.

“Well, if they’re not real, then why are you buggin’ Mommy at midnight because of dreaming about them, huh?” She keeps her voice light and affectionate, just this side of teasing. Tristan doesn’t react well to any kind of perceived anger or rejection, moping for a day or more around while his brain tries to process that she didn’t stop loving him just because he did something that bothered her. Tris as a toddler broke her heart more than once with terrified insistence that you, you, you don’t even like me anymore after time-outs or discipline.

He’s just being manipulative, her mother had said once, but Ronnie knew better.

He’s three years old, Mom. He’s not trying to manipulate me, he’s scared.

He’s just doing what works, Veronica, you can’t always give in to it.

Mom. He is a little boy. Do you realize how you sound?

Now his teacher is repeating the same tired circular logic that cycles round and round her son without ever seeing him. Ronnie is staring down the barrel of another round of meetings, talking to administrators to try and get around the teacher’s rigidity and hostility, arguing for Tris to get moved into a new class, and all the while he’ll fall further and further behind in his in-class work - while at home he rockets through the homeschooling workbooks she buys, a six-year-old already doing second-grade reading and writing work, first-grade math, obsessed with a kid show about science that they have to watch every single day or he has seriously informed her he might die.

The knowledge is there, and his love of learning hasn’t been throttled by school yet, and Ronnie can’t do anything but try to work within a system that tells her that her son needs to be changed or cured in order to not be kept locked away from everyone else.

Monsters are pretty fucking real, in Ronnie’s experience.

One day her son will have to learn that all the monsters are human beings.

God, she’s so tired of fighting, and so very aware that she’s not going to stop until the whole damn world remakes itself to give space for Tristan, until the world deserves how unreservedly her son loves it.

She takes another drink, then sets the beer bottle carefully down on the coaster - she ordered them last year, and they all have little stylized drawings of the three of them on it, faceless sketches of a man, a woman, a child - man and child red-headed, woman with brown hair.

When she’d gotten the positive pregnancy test, right before Thanksgiving her junior year, she’d thrown up and cried for a week and been sullen and silent at the holiday table, trying to figure out what to do next.

But Paul had never hesitated. When she told him, his response had been to go home to his dad and ask to start working part-time with the Garden, running packages he never looked into, playing lookout outside of bars while the Garden met inside. His first pay - cash handed to him in an envelope - he’d spent some of it on a onesie, a baby blanket, and a stuffed puppy with fur so soft Ronnie could barely stand the fluff.

Then he’d spent some more on ginger chews and ‘Preggo Pops’, lollipops that were supposed to help with Ronnie’s morning sickness, and three books on pregnancy for her and one book on becoming a dad for him.

Paul did what Paul always did - took one look at a cliff he had to cross and simply leapt headfirst and hoped for the best. That impulsiveness that she loved and that had gotten him in so much trouble in life, the enthusiasm that carried her long with it.

There are monsters in the world, Ronnie thinks, running fingers through her son’s fine, soft hair. But there are people who help you fight the monsters, too. Even if the monster is just the stares from other students at school as her stomach grew, the way her friends’ parents stopped letting her come to their houses, the thin-lipped disapproval of the principal handing her a high school diploma as she half-waddled across the stage, refusing to be shamed, engagement ring on her finger. Even if the monster is a world that tries to shove her son into boxes that he can’t fit into, or a teacher who sends him home in tears convinced he’s too stupid to learn anything.

Her jaw sets.

Veronica Higgs has been headstrong since birth, and she’s never made a decision she didn't follow through on. Never turned away from a fight. She’s not about to start now, not when it’s her son.

Ronnie has never turned away from the sweet baby that had looked at her with such dark-eyed seriousness when he was born, the infant who cried for reasons Ronnie couldn't’ fathom, the toddler who screamed that the lights at Target hurt his skin, the little boy who lined up dinosaurs and cars and toy horses in perfect color gradients, the boy who rocks in her arms and hums when he’s happy, the boy she hopes will one day be able to live on his own without her, because…

Because if only Paul and Ronnie are going to fight for him, then they’re going to have to be a fight so fierce that everyone else can’t possibly hold out against them.

The doctors said he might not talk - and he talks a mile-a-minute, about any-fucking-thing that comes into his mind. They said he wouldn’t make friends easily, but he goes on sleepovers with his gymnastics buddies, just went to a party at Chuck E. Cheese with a little preparation so he wasn’t scared of the games and lights and noise when he got there. They said he would struggle in school, and-

Well, he does. But only because of the adults who refuse to understand that Tris learns just fine… if you let him listen in his own way.

“Hey, Tris?” She smiles down at him and he turns those big green eyes up to her. There’s a chapped spot on his lower lip that looks like he might have messed with it until it opened into a sore, and she reminds herself to get some vaseline on it. “You want to stay here with me for a bit? We’ll watch one of your shows, and then back to bed. How’s that sound?”

He smiles at her, and nods a little, still tapping along to her heartbeat. “Oh, oh, okay, Mom. Can, can, can… can-can… can we watch Dino King?”

“Yeah, sure.” Ronnie hates that show, but really - he loves it, and it’s one night, and she could use the way his open, brilliant happiness helps her forget that he’s going to have to work harder and harder to hold onto it as he grows.

She picks up the remote, brings up the menu, switches to a streaming network, and listens to the grating, familiar theme song start to play as her son’s eyes move contentedly to the screen.

He watches the show, but he never takes his head away from her heartbeat.

---

Natalie Yoder has had easier nights than this one, that’s for fucking sure. She leans over the kitchen table, papers spread out in front of her, trying to figure out where they went wrong. This is one of their biggest grants, it’s a bit of funding that she has always relied on, and… denied approval for the upcoming fiscal year.

Thousands of dollars she needs to feed and clothe and house her rescues, gone up in smoke, denied with a bloodless email and no ability to fight back, not for this one. Not this year. It could be a simple error, something she overlooked, sure. Or maybe the association that gives out the grants is suspicious of her story about transitioning homeless people into permanent housing, which really is exactly what she’s doing, isn’t it?

Just… not the kind of homeless people the grant givers are imagining.

She’ll have to call Vince to beg for him to help her fill in the gap, and that will mean time for him to speak with his finance guy and get another couple of shell companies to funnel the money through so it doesn’t go back to him. He’ll give it to her, to be sure - Vince could give her the money to run this place flat out for the rest of his life and still be one of the wealthiest men in America, thanks to his low-key lifestyle and strong work ethic meaning he spends more time filming or producing than he does doing anything else.

Nat knows why Vince doesn’t want to be home, to sit up alone with a bottle or a glass in his hand. She knows his work ethic is simply escaping the demons that will never stop haunting his footsteps, what he traded away for his success, what he lost, what the money and fame can protect him from but can’t remove the stamp of it already written over his soul.

He’s famous, and rich, and Owen Grant can’t touch him now… but the tradeoff of Vince’s survival was that some innocent kid was abducted and turned, through drugs and torture and horrifying assault, into Kauri.

Kauri, who hasn’t answered the phone or sent a text in a week.

Not since that fucking group meeting where Chris was assaulted and Kauri stood up for him. Not since Kauri’s intuition that Kyle had some less-than-savory interest in Chris had proven correct, because… it wasn’t intuition at all.

It was experience.

Nat groans, rubbing her hands over her face, closing her eyes and reminding herself, teeth ground together, to try and stay calm. It’s not unusual for Kauri to disappear for a while, a week or more. It’s not a sign that something is wrong. He was hurt by Nat pushing him, he needs time to think.

He’ll pop right back up again, smiling like nothing happened, like he isn’t giving Nat gray hairs (well, new ones, anyway) trying to tell herself he’ll be okay.

All she can do is trust that he’ll come back when he’s ready.

... and castigate herself for letting that fucking predator get close to Chris without picking up on what he was planning, and for not realizing Kauri wasn’t just being overprotective of a younger rescue, but - in his own way - waving giant red flags that Nat, and Jake, and everyone else just didn’t see.

That, and then losing the grant, have made for one hell of a fucking week.

Nat takes deep breaths. Her hands smell like dish soap and a hint of the roasted garlic she’d put in the soup for supper lingering. The kitchen still smells like the garlic, roasted parsnips and rosemary. Chris had never had parsnips before-

Not that anyone knows if he really hasn’t or not.

“Oh, Nat, you are a mess tonight,” She mutters to herself. “Just full-on moping, huh? That’s how we’re gonna play it?”

Then she hears the soft scrape of a foot on the tile and looks up, blinking, to see Chris in the doorway, leaning against the wood of the frame, the big purple fuzzy blanket she’d gotten him a few weeks back wrapped around his narrow shoulders, the hints of faded muscle that still linger there. Usually he’s draped in Jake’s clothes but tonight he’s only wearing his basketball shorts, no shirt at all.

The rare glimpse of so much of Chris’s skin - she hasn’t seen so much of him since the night he arrived in the pouring rain - tells Nat more than anything else that Chris isn’t okay, either.

“Hey, Chris. What’s up, sweetheart?” Nat glances over at the oven, squinting at the clock, and then groans. “Jesus, it’s nearly 2 am. I lost track of time, I guess.”

Chris doesn’t move from the doorway, not at first. He’s gone quiet again, since the assault, regressing back into periods of stillness and silence that they were so sure he’d gotten past. Jake says he’s testing again, trying to push Jake and Antoni into repeating the patterns that were tortured into his mind as normal, reacting with relief at their rejections - and then testing again, within hours, reminding himself that they’ll never say yes.

Nat looks at him, the shadows under his green eyes, and tries, “Did you have a nightmare?”

He slowly nods, and she watches his hands twist a little into the soft fabric of his blanket, rhythmically twisting to the side and back, nearly invisible with how well he can hide what he does to soothe himself, a skill taught in all the worst ways, learned in a desperate attempt to keep himself sane.

“Hm. I can see that. Was it about the meeting, the other night?”

His eyes dance away from hers, move to the ceiling, and he’s staring upwards at the rough texture up there as he nods, chewing on his lower lip with his top teeth, worrying at a spot that she knows he’ll eventually work to bleeding, sooner or later. He pauses and says, softly, “Kauri… didn’t come find me. That was, was my... my dream. And... it. It hurt.”

His voice, slow drips of speech, hits Nat like a knife to the heart. She nods, slowly, and pushes herself up, chair scraping back across the tile. Chris flinches minutely at the sound, curling a little into himself. “I understand, sweetheart,” She says, softly. “I’m so sorry we didn’t know sooner.”

She thinks, looking at him, of Daniel in the lion’s den, an old Bible story that’s never left her. Daniel trusted God and walked out unscathed, but she’s always thought maybe he wasn’t quite as unscathed as the Bible wants you to think he was.

It’s one thing to have faith that you’ll survive being thrown in with monsters - it’s another to be so inhuman that you don’t wake with nightmares, for months or years after, that you were never saved at all. She is certain, deep down inside of her, that Daniel dreamed of a lion’s teeth and a promise broken, a prayer unheard.

The stories talk about Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego in a furnace walking out of the flames untouched, but of course the flames had still touched them. Scars aren’t always written openly on your skin.

Of course they dreamed of flames scorching their skin, curling their hair, smoke stealing breath from their lungs. They, like Daniel, must have woken gasping, certain that their faith had been misplaced, that their trust that someone stood between them and the monsters who would destroy them had been betrayed.

They must have breathed, panting, in the middle of the night, and sworn they could still see the smoke in the air, feel the heat against their skin.

They must have needed to come fully awake to remember - and believe - that they had been rescued. They must have needed the reminder.

Chris has no scars from walking with monsters - all his scars are inside his head. Chris’s scars come in his fear that she will not want him, that no one really wants him, when he can’t fight back or say no or defend himself, when he needs someone else to be his defense, to go to war. They come in his insistent, constant testing of Jake, pushing to see if it’s all been a lie, if they only want to use him the way he has been taught he is made to be used.

“Kauri was smarter than any of the rest of us,” Nat says, feeling suddenly exhausted. “We should have listened. I shouldn’t have had to step in. You deserved better.”

Chris deserves a fucking angel to lead him untouched out of the flames.

All he has is Jake - and Nat.

She fills a saucepan with cold milk while he watches her, his eyes on her back a tangible, palpable weight, and pops a lid on, turning the dial until the flames flicker up from the burner to start heating it to a simmer.

“I’m going to have hot chocolate the old fashioned way,” She announces, pulling down a bag with some discs of melting chocolate in it. They cost too much and mostly nobody notices the difference, but tonight… tonight, she thinks the extra effort is worth it. “You want whipped cream on yours, when it’s done?”

“Yes, please,” He whispers, and she looks over at him with a small smile. His hair is mussed still from sleep, a hint of red on his cheek where he must have had it pressed into a pillow. His freckles stand out in the thin light of the kitchen’s overhead light fixture.

Next door, at Miss Ruth’s, a light turns on, and Nat glances through her own window to see it. Jaden, probably - that kid sleeps about as little as Chris does.

“Well, good, because I’m having some, too.” She pauses, leaning her back against the kitchen counter. There’s a long silence that draws out between them. The milk heats, bubbling just the tiniest bit around the edges in the saucepan, and Nat carefully drops in the chocolate discs to melt whisking until the liquid is a rich brown, thickened, ready for her to pour carefully into two mugs and top with the spray-bottle whipped cream she keeps in the fridge.

Nat sets the mugs down on the kitchen table, pulling Chris a chair up right next to hers. He relaxes a little at the tacit, silent request for closeness, drops into his chair with a slight smile playing over his face. He picks up the mug with both hands and takes a sip, getting whipped cream at the end of his nose, wiping it off with a scrunched-up expression that lifts some of the fatigue that dogs Nat’s muscles in the early-morning hours.

“I know the dreams are scary,” Nat says softly, reaching out to lay a hand on his back. He looks over at her, with those giant green eyes in his narrow face, searching for something in her. Maybe just for certainty that the promises she’s made to him will be kept. “But Kauri did come to help you. And you’re safe here, with us. We’ll always come for you, Chris, no matter what.”

He leans over, with slow inevitability, until the top of his head brushes against her neck, his head just at her collarbone. She lets her arm slide around his shoulders, her hand moving to run fingers slowly through his fine, soft coppery hair. “I, I, I forgot how to say no,” He whispers, and presses his head against her.

“I know, honey. But that’s okay, we get back up and try again, right?” Nat sips her own hot chocolate slowly, and Chris holds his cupped warm in his palms, but even as he keeps taking sips, he doesn’t pull away from her. Eventually, he puts the mug back down on the table and shifts a little, so his ear is just over her heart.

“We, we, we try again,” He whispers. “But, but, but I don’t want to, to, to, I don’t-... want to be, um, to be scared again, to… have someone-”

“I know.” Nat swallows, her throat closing, briefly, but she fights it back and keeps her voice - and her hand through his hair - steady as she speaks. “There are going to be bad people out there, Chris, who want to hurt you. But you’re not alone.”

She thinks again of Daniel, waking from nightmares of gnashing teeth, maybe kicking off blankets and pacing a room, his skin written invisibly with the aftermath of a terror that never punctured skin. She thinks of three men in a fire, dreaming again and again that the fourth never arrived to lead them out of the flames.

She thinks of promises made, and kept. Prayers spoken in desperation, and answered, although so often far too late.

She thinks of the prayers for mercy, in the cold white rooms, that are never heard at all.

She’s tired, but she loves them - all of them, who have passed through her doors and gone on to other places - and she can’t imagine being anything but their army, their defense, the wall they can hide behind to rebuild themselves until they fight on their own.

Not on their own, though, never really on their own.

She may never know what happened to him, to bring him here to her doorstep - but she knows that he doesn’t have to face the monsters, the flames, the danger alone. Not anymore.

“You’re safe here,” She says, gently, and turns her head to rest her chin on top of his head. “You’re safe here, and loved, and there’s nothing we won’t do to make sure you’re safe. Whatever comes at you, sweetheart, we’ve got you. And we’ll fight it for you, every time, until you can fight for yourself.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then he asks, in a whisper, “Do, do, do you you-you promise?”

“Promise, Chris. Cross my heart and hope-”

“Don’t-... don’t say the, the end of it.” His voice weakens. “Please.”

“Sorry, sweetie.” She tightens the arm around his shoulders a little, and feels him snuggle closer in response, a low sigh of relief at the reassurance in the embrace. “Swear on everything. I’ve got you, and Jake has got you, and we’re not gonna disappear. I don’t-... I don’t know if we can always save the day for you, Chris, but I can promise you that we will always try.”

He hums, eyes closing. One of his hands slides over her stomach, and begins - slight, soft, barely-there - to tap.

It takes Nat a few seconds to realize that he is tapping along to the beat of her heart.

---

Tagging: @burtlederp, @finder-of-rings, @endless-whump, @whumpfigure, @slaintetowhump, @astrobly @newandfiguringitout , @doveotions , @pretty-face-breaker, @boxboysandotherwhump , @oops-its-whump @moose-teeth , @cubeswhump , @cupcakes-and-pain @whump-tr0pes @whumpiary @orchidscript, @itallcomesdowntopain

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generallynerdy · 3 years

Text

Allowing the thought to stay the trigger, the heart to register its trembling (Grey/Depa Billaba ft. Caleb Dume)

Summary: “I’m not worth it,” Grey hisses through their teeth. “Please. Depa, please—” Their general, their Jedi, only shakes her head, her grip on their shoulders a death sentence. “I will not leave you,” she says. “Fight the voice, Grey. Fight it.” They sob and some part of their brain burns with the knowledge that little brown eyes are watching from the corner of the room. They scream, pulling against their bonds and the twisting darkness in their head. “I can’t. I can’t—” Something that isn’t Grey crawls under their skin and it speaks, twisted, Dark. “Traitors.”

Warnings: Mind Control, Violent Thoughts, Serious Injuries, Blood and Violence, Eye Trauma (not graphic but described briefly), Vomiting (in like one sentence, emetophobia gang rise up), Angst Word Count: 2,275

Prompt: Angstpril Day 3 - “I can’t.”

Author’s Note: more suffering! Yay! I like to think this ended happily but this is Angstpril so I’m not writing it lol. Also, I discovered that Kanan’s eyes aren’t actually brown, at least according to Wookieepedia but frankly that’s stupid as fuck so. Brown-eyed Kanan. And nonbinary Grey because I am apparently not the only one who loves that concept! (Also, sorry for late posting! I was unable to finish this last night :/ hopefully I can finish day 4 today as well and catch up)

Read on AO3

Good soldiers follow orders.

It's an endless loop in the back of their mind, an itch they can't quite scratch. At the Order, it breaks free and turns to a screech, a ringing thought that echoes in their head so loudly it hurts. They don't even feel themselves pulling the trigger, shouting for their squad to follow.

But when they finally come to, underneath the monster that's stolen their face, it's because they're standing over him.

Caleb.

Commander Caleb Dume. Jedi Padawan. Traitor.

Ad'ika, their heart cries as they lift their blaster. Their shaking hands have it levelled at the boy's face, right between his big brown, tear-filled eyes.

"Grey—Grey, what are you doing? What—?" His pleading words are nearly unintelligible between his panting breaths. When the cold metal touches his face, he sobs. “Don’t! Buir, don’t—don’t—please—”

Their cheeks are wet. Caleb sees it and only sobs harder, afraid to move for fear that they’ll pull the trigger. With their trembling hands, the likelihood of a misfire is high.

Inside their mind, Grey screams. They claw at the walls of their mental prison, leaving their fingertips bloodied and their throat hoarse from their agonizing howls. The cell won’t budge. The chip won’t give. They can’t get out. They can’t save their son.

But someone else can.

A robed figure flies out of nowhere, tackling Grey to the ground and sending their blasters into the air with a flick of their hand.

“Caleb, the blasters!”

Depa.

General Depa Billaba. Jedi High General. Traitor.

Depa. She hates it when I call her General.

She pins them to the ground and presses the calloused pads of her fingers against their temple. Something like grief crosses her face. “Sleep, Grey. Sleep.”

The chip fights, but they don’t. They like to think it helps bring the darkness faster.

“Master?”

Caleb’s voice trembles when he asks, taking a hesitant step forward. Depa is still on top of Grey, catching her breath and making sure they’re passed out. She shuts her eyes tightly, centering her conflicted presence. Her Padawan needs her and so does Grey. This is no time to grieve for the rest of their battalion.

(She tried to incapacitate rather than kill, but they’re still gone. The light that she used to associate with them has been snuffed out by a strangling darkness that burns.)

“It’s alright, Caleb, they’re unconscious,” she says, mustering what little strength she has left.

At her word, he rushes over, clinging to the sleeve of her robe.

Any other day, he’d be indignantly distant, trying to prove himself on the battlefield and make Depa proud. But right now he reeks of terror and uncertainty. And she feels the same.

Execute Order 66, the Chancellor had said.

And then everything had gone to hell. The clones had disappeared, replaced by darkness, and the Master-Padawan pair had barely made it out with their lives. Depa hasn’t even been able to process the wave of lights being snuffed out in the Force and she knows her Padawan hasn’t either; his connection with the Force feels brittle and broken. The Jedi are dying at the hands of their closest companions, at the order of the Chancellor of the Republic, and the two of them stand in the center of it all.

“What’s happening?”

“I don’t know,” she admits quietly. She climbs off Grey and binds them with their own set of binders, something tight in her chest as she does. Then, she turns back to Caleb. “Are you alright? No injuries?”

He shakes his head and wipes at his eyes with the edge of his sleeve. “Just scrapes.” He glances at Grey. “That—That wasn’t Buir, was it? It felt...wrong.”

“Very wrong,” she agrees. “I don’t know what it was, but the Chancellor triggered it. We need to get off the planet.”

“Are we...going back to the Temple?”

Depa visibly hesitates. His face falls and he knows in his heart that they aren’t. Even if they did, there would probably be nothing and no one left.

“It isn’t safe. We need to lay low for a while and figure out how to save Grey,” she tells him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Caleb, look at me.”

He does and she smiles a little.

Even now, in what must be the worst moment of his short life, he’s ready to listen. He’s ready to do what he needs to.

She kneels down to meet his height, holding his head in her capable hands. “You will survive this,” she says like it’s a promise. She can’t say the same of her or Grey or anyone else they know, but she can promise that Caleb will live. Because she will die to see it through. “You will. Do you understand?”

Despite the fear in his eyes, he nods.

“Good.”

Depa allows herself a moment to breathe, but no longer.

“Now, we need a way out of here.”

Grey wakes to the buzzing of a ship and panics. The last they remember, they were on the surface of the planet, with Depa and Caleb and- oh, Force. Oh, fuck.

Did they attack them? Did they hold a gun to Caleb's head?

Their own is throbbing, something clearly wrong. Chills go down their spine as they sit up, finding their wrists held together by their own binders. They're on the floor of a cargo bay, in an unfamiliar ship, but familiar voices echo from down the hall.

"Master, they're awake!" calls Caleb after poking his head in.

He may not be showing it, or trying not to, but Grey can see the fear in his furrowed eyebrows.

He's afraid of them.

They feel nauseous at the realisation.

"Caleb—" they try to say. Their voice is hoarse.

Depa appears from the hall, a glass of water in her hand. She crosses to Grey, motioning for her Padawan to stay by the door, which he does without question. Kneeling before her commander, her lover, she examines their face. They can feel her prodding at them gently in the Force. She's trying to decide whether they're friend or foe right now.

“Are you with us, Grey?”

They hesitate, but eventually nod. “I think so.”

With a small smile, Depa helps them drink the water, but pulls it away quickly when it’s finished. She’s cautious and rightfully so, Grey thinks when they feel something in their head tug.

They must visibly flinch, because so does Caleb.

“Tell me what’s happening,” their general murmurs, putting a hand on their knee.

Shutting their eyes fiercely, they take a long moment to answer. “It’s—It’s hard to fight. It wants me to...to kill the trai-traitors,” they gasp out, finding the unknown force stronger when they speak that word. They open their eyes, horrified. “Shit.”

“You’re alright.” She takes their hand and starts tracing patterns. “Can you tell where it’s coming from?”

“No, but...kark, my head hurts. My head. I think.”

“Stay still,” she warns.

She runs a hand up their temple, her eyes shut in concentration. The Force prods gently at their mind and, when it finds the offending area, something burns. Grey cries out and Depa stops in an instant, pulling back with a fearful look.

“There’s—” Glancing back at her Padawan, she takes a steadying breath. “I believe there’s something in your head that doesn’t belong, Grey. Something physical, but it’s very dark in the Force.”

“Can we get it out?” Caleb asks, his voice smaller than he is, which is saying something.

She stands, frowning. “I don’t know. I’ll set a course for—”

Grey’s face twists as the thing inside their head roars to life. “Don’t—” they manage to growl out.

There’s a lot they can’t explain to Depa in that moment. For one thing, they’d like to tell her that if the Chancellor activated the thing in their brain, he might very well be able to track them or hear their conversations through it. For another, it’s quite possible that if Dark Grey—yes, they’re calling the evil thing in their head by that now—overtakes Light Grey—Cody would be rolling on the floor now. Is Cody alive? Is his general alive?—they might just straight up contact the enemy.

Even though they can’t explain all that, their beloved Depa Billaba stops instantly, her eyes shining with understanding.

“—somewhere we can lay low and find a doctor,” she finishes instead.

Dark Grey shoves, pushes for more information. It stabs at Grey, a physical pain that makes them hiss. Out of their control, they speak.

“Good soldiers follow orders.”

It makes Depa frown. She examines their face, watching as it shifts into something so unlike them it’s sickening.

“Good soldiers follow orders,” they snap again, like a mantra.

Dark Grey does not appreciate their plan.

Grey finally gets a hold of themself, dragging themself into consciousness with a heavy breath. When they look up at Depa, their gaze is determined.

“You need to leave me.”

“No!” cries Caleb fiercely.

Depa holds up a hand. “Caleb,” she warns, a reminder to mind his emotions.

He falls silent, watching his Master and his buir with something akin to horrified bafflement. Force, Grey has never seen him so openly terrified. Ever since he joined their little family, he’s been nothing but brave.

“I’m a liability and a threat,” they say, turning their attention back to Depa. “It’ll be easier to go without me.”

“We won’t leave you behind.”

They frown at her, lowering their voice. “He can’t die because of me.”

She doesn’t dare glance at Caleb, doesn’t dare give their worries away to the boy, who already has the weight of the galaxy on his shoulders. “It won’t come down to that.”

“And neither can you,” they add firmly.

Depa’s expression tells them all they need to know. That’s one thing she can’t promise.

“He needs you.”

She huffs a rueful laugh. “So do you.”

If they could, they’d reach out to hold the back of her neck and keep her close.

Hold her neck and break it.

Grey flinches back. “No—”

“Tell me what it’s saying,” she encourages, reaching for them.

An agonizing pain rips through their skull, eliciting a scream. Despite the binders on their wrists, they claw at their scalp. The thought crosses Depa’s mind that she should stop them, but she doesn’t get the chance.

They drop their hands and gaze up at her with tearful eyes.

“I’m not worth it,” Grey hisses through their teeth. “Please. Depa, please—”

Their general, their Jedi, only shakes her head, her grip on their shoulders a death sentence. “I will not leave you,” she says. “Fight the voice, Grey. Fight it.”

They sob and some part of their brain burns with the knowledge that little brown eyes are watching from the corner of the room. They scream, pulling against their bonds and the twisting darkness in their head. “I can’t. I can’t—”

Something that isn’t Grey crawls under their skin and it speaks, twisted, Dark.

“Traitors.”

They lurch forward. Depa thinks they’re collapsing, but Dark Grey has other plans. They involve the vibroblade tucked into her boot, which is now in reach.

She never liked weapons that weren’t kyber-powered, lightsabers and lightsaber rifles in particular, but after a Separatist assassin nearly suffocated Grey right next to her, she became paranoid. Working through her fear was difficult, so her partner thought having a weapon under her pillow might put her at ease. For the most part, it worked. No one knew of its existence except Grey and she preferred it that way.

And now, CC-10/994 turns that trust against her.

With a fierce yell, he barrels into the Jedi traitor, ripping the vibroblade from its hiding place as she goes flying.

“Master!”

Before the other traitor can react, CC-10/994 flips the first over his shoulder, slamming her into the wall. Then, he flies at the smaller target, vibroblade tightly grasped.

The Jedi yelps and ducks his flurry of blows.

“Grey, snap out of it!” he says desperately.

CC-10/994 doesn’t flinch and leaps forward again.

“Buir! Buir, it’s me, Caleb!”

A single slash of the vibroblade has the traitor shrieking, falling back with an arm over his face. Before CC-10/994 can attack again, the Jedi Padawan throws out a hand, sending him soaring across the room. He slams into the wall with a vicious crack, all the air pushed from his lungs in an instant. For a split second, Grey rises again, ready to fight themself off, but it’s unnecessary.

Depa is there, shoving them into the cargo bay’s cell, ripping the vibroblade away, and locking the door behind them.

Grey collapses inside, gasping for breath and trembling as they stare at their own hands in horror. Blood stains their gloves. The sight makes them nauseous, so they tug the gloves off and throw them to the other side of the cell, desperate to get away.

It’s Caleb’s howl that makes them look up.

Depa is at his side in an instant but not fast enough. He pulls his sleeve away from his face and—

Grey throws up that time, into the corner of the cell.

Their blow struck true, slashing Caleb’s face from his right temple to the bridge of his nose. It’s a deep cut, one that goes into his right eye and bleeds profusely. The other eye, untouched, is blinded by tears.

“I can’t see,” he sobs, reaching for his Master, who reaches back. “I can’t—Master, I can’t—”

CC-10/994 lifts his head and smiles.

“Death to the traitors,” he spits. “Glory to the Empire.”

(Dark Grey uses he/him because Dark Grey follows orders, including gender assignments.)

River’s Tags: @hahaboop & @mystoragehatesme

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phantom-curve · 3 years

Text

probably should give this a title pt. 2

yooooo so I wrote this second lil blurb in the middle of the night and then I wrote 3,000 words for the next chapter of my novel and I’m just honestly thrilled that these writing exercises are working out so well for my creative process. and I’m mad happy ya’ll like this. it feels like such a silly little thing when I write it, but your responses make me feel like it’s so much more. thank you

adding the tag list at the top! lemme know if you wanna be added. @blue-hat-girl, @lwhoscribbles, @bluefyoto94, @5sosmukefan, @moonlightxnder (really hope I did these right. I am not lying when I tell you I am the most technologically challenged millennial)

also, I’m really out of the fandom loophole so I’m still trying to figure out if it would be better to post this in it’s entirety to a website somewhere. how do you guys feel about ao3? would you prefer to read these posts there or do you like them being only on tumblr? please give me your feedback, I am but a humble internet granny at the mercy of your social media recommendations.

The next day, as Julie was walking to school by herself, contemplating the mess that was her life now, a car pulled over next to her on the side of the road. At first, she ignored it. She pretended she didn’t hear the way the tires slowed, crunching on the gravel in the bike lane. She had her headphones in after all, it was a believable excuse. Then the sound cut off entirely. A door opened and closed, the thud echoing in the cool morning air.

“Hey, Molina!”

His voice was loud enough that Julie would have been able to hear him even with the volume turned all the way up. Still, she continued on like she hadn’t noticed him. Her step never faltered down the path, a good 10 feet away from where his car was parked, still idling. Without warning, a warm hand grasped her left wrist.

“Julie.”

Her name was a caress, soft and warm as it wove its way into her ear. It was intimate in a way she didn’t feel fully comfortable with. She shivered, goosebumps rippling down her arms. He released his grip, but the ring his fingers had made around her wrist burned like a brand. Slowly, hands trembling ever so slightly, she reached up to remove her earbuds. She turned on her heel, eyes focused on his forehead, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Hey, Luke.”

One of his thick eyebrows rose, silently asking if she was really going to act like she hadn’t heard his approach. She stuck out her chin in response, forever her mother’s headstrong, stubborn twin. He puffed out his cheeks and then let his breath go on a slight chuckle, lips turning up at the edges, eyes crinkling. He swept his hands out in a grand gesture, showcasing the parked car behind them with a dramatic flourish.

“Need a ride to school?”

Her first instinct was to frown and give him an unequivocal “no”. She got as far as the frown before her eyes fully focused on the car, or more importantly, who was inside of the car. She didn’t have very long to study them before the other boys were climbing out of the passenger side and backseat of the car in perfect synchronization. Her frown intensified, brown eyes snapping to meet Luke’s earnest gaze.

“Hi Julie!”

A lean, dark-haired boy raised his leather jacket clad arm in a cheerful greeting. She felt her own arm raise without conscious thought, Reggie’s unbreakable cheerfulness pulling a response out of her despite herself. Her eyes skimmed over to the other boy. Alex’s shoulders slumped ever so slightly, blonde hair flopping into his eyes as he grimaced at her.

“Sorry. If it’s any consolation, I told him to just keep driving.”

“Sooooo, can we give you a ride?”

Julie’s attention was pulled back to the boy standing in front of her by his soft drawl. She studied him from head to toe, brow furrowing as she tried to decide what, exactly, he was playing at here. By the time she reached his face, she could tell he had figured out what she was doing. He gave a little scoff, shoulders rising in a defensive, self-deprecating move that she knew all too well. Better to insult yourself, act like none of it really mattered anyway, before someone else could stick the knife in.

He kicked one foot out, scuffing the dirt between them. He expected the no now, was practically banking on it. Something about his immediate response told her that he had been hearing it all his life, especially in those moments when he was offering up a vulnerable side of himself. Like right now. Julie studied the three faces before her, someone was missing – wasn’t there usually four of them? Her resolve cracked, splintering beyond recognition as she gave in with a long-suffering sigh. She had always been a sucker for band boys.

“Okay, fine.”

The smile that stretched across his lips shone with such an intensity Julie briefly wished she had sunglasses. It wasn’t fair that he was able to make his face that...that nice looking. How was she supposed to resist his kindness when he looked at her like that? With another over-the-top wave of his arms he led her towards the car.

“Your chariot awaits.”

The murmur was meant for her ears only, Luke leaning so close she could feel the heat from his breath against her ear. She shivered again, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. He smirked at her and seemed to almost bounce as he led her to the car. Reggie and Alex exchanged a quick high-five with him, Alex immediately relinquishing the front seat to Julie, brushing her argument aside when she tried to take the backseat instead.

“Passenger seat gets to control the radio. Consider it a musical education for our sweet little Lucas.”

Luke stuck his tongue out and gave an exaggerated roll of his eyes before leveling Julie with a surprisingly hot look over the top of the car. She gulped, unwilling to let herself be sucked in by the ever-present charm that seemed to ooze from his pores. She gave him a small nod and slipped into the passenger seat, buckling herself in before he could remind her. Reggie and Alex crowded in the back and once again Julie realized this band picture was incomplete.

“Where’s Bobby?”

The storm clouds that immediately rolled into the car told Julie this was exactly the wrong question to ask. For one single moment she regretted it, and then she decided, fuck it, her trauma and grief had been on open display for everyone to see for the last year. She deserved to pry a little bit into someone else’s life for once. Luke’s hands flexed on the wheel, his lips curling into his teeth. Reggie and Alex exchanged a quick look before the drummer leaned forward.

“Bobby...isn’t really a part of our band anymore. Turns out we had different...musical aspirations as it were.”

Luke gave a faint growl and Alex rolled his eyes. Reggie jumped to cover up the awkward silence.

“Enough about that, dude, how did your meeting with Ms. Harrison go yesterday?”

And now it was Sunset Curve’s turn to ask the worst question imaginable. Misery really did love company, eh? Julie felt herself shrink into the seat, knees curling into her chest as she fought to keep her breathing steady. Alex and Luke both groaned loudly, Alex’s hand darting out to smack the bassist’s arm hard enough to make an indent in the leather.

“We should get going or we’re gonna be late for school.”

The words scraped against the lump in her throat, barely rasping their way to the surface. Julie turned her face to look out the passenger side window, her dismissal clear in every tense line of her neck and jawline. Luke started the car, frustration evident in his jerky movements and fiery glances thrown into the rearview mirror. The engine started up loud enough to cause Alex to jump slightly. Reggie looked at the blonde boy next to him with confused desperation, had he stuck his foot in it again?, but the drummer just groaned and buried his face in his hands. Reggie dared one more glance at Julie’s stiff profile, clearly that meeting was a touchy topic. He caught Luke’s exasperated glare and suddenly understood that maybe asking Julie about the make-it-or-break-it music program meeting wasn’t the best idea this early on a Tuesday morning. Luke rolled his eyes as he saw the realization dawn, but it was too late to do anything now. Julie had shut down in the passenger seat. In complete silence, they drove towards the high school.

#comin atcha hot with the next installment of my writer's block exercise #I didn't edit this cause I'm kinda tipsy so sorry for any typos #julie and the phantoms #jatp #juke #jukebox #julie x luke #luke x julie #palina #Mads speaks #Mads writes #jatp ficlet #someone please help me name this thing #it's literally saved in my writing folder as jatp writer's block lmfao #it deserves a real name #julie molina #luke patterson #find the strength find the melody

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patchwork-panda · 3 years

Text

If A Moment Is All We Are (26/?)

AO3 link: HERE

Music is recommended for this chapter. When you hit the first **, please open up this link: HERE When you hit the second **, please open this link for the BSD 1st ED

It was dark.

So, so dark.

I opened my eyes as wide as I could and then squeezed them shut just to check that they were actually open. They were.

I swallowed uneasily and tried to stay calm.

Earlier, when he was carrying me to the car, Dazai had accidentally jostled me awake. When I looked at him, he simply said he was taking me back to the ADA, specifically to the infirmary so Dr. Yosano could heal me with her Ability.

“It’s going to be rough,” he’d murmured softly into my ear, “and she’ll probably keep you overnight, but it’s better than being in a hospital for several weeks.”

I heard a crack of a smile in his voice.

“You’ll be okay.”

I’d then floated in and out of consciousness as Dazai had gotten in the back seat with me, buckled in my seat belt and laid my head against his shoulder for support. As the low rumble of the engine starting slowly filled the car, I found myself drifting off yet again. I was so out of it that I didn’t really remember the trip... Except for one small detail.

At one point during the ride, I thought I felt Dazai brushing his long fingers through my hair. He was singing something under his breath, something low and pleasant that sounded like it had nothing to do with suicide... and his singing voice had sounded so beautiful that I could feel myself smiling as I listened...

That was the last thing I was aware of before I passed out entirely and woke up in this pitch-black room. Where the heck was I?!

Groaning a little, I tried to stretch out but found almost immediately that I couldn’t. My arms and legs were strapped down to a partially upright table—a cold, hard slab of a table I didn’t remember being strapped into. I then tried moving my hands and flexing what little muscle I had but instantly regretted it when my entire body was suddenly flooded with a sharp, electric surge of pain.

Right. My arms and ribs were still broken.

I rolled my head to the side with a sigh of defeat, my neck cracking loudly as I moved. It was pretty clear to me now that even if I were at full strength, there was no way that a weakling like me would be able to break free from these restraints. They were probably made for holding down the monstrous strength of an angry Kunikida or a starving Kenji... Which just left one question...

Who strapped me in here?

There was a soft creak.

I swiveled my head towards it and saw a sliver of light appearing in the corner, watching as it grew wider and wider until I realized it was the light from an open doorway. Then I heard a hollow “snap.” Lights—bright, white and blinding came on all around me, flooding into my eyeballs with such intensity that I winced and screwed my eyes shut against the onslaught.

** “Well, well, well,” a low, feminine voice purred, “If it isn’t our newest recruit? You’re hurt, aren’t you...? Kyou-chan?”

Heels clicked against tile, the sound echoing sharply throughout the room. I looked up to see Dr. Yosano in a lab coat and gloves, the golden butterfly clip gleaming brightly in her hair. I should’ve felt comforted at the sight of her but there was something about her smile—something sinister that made the blood turn cold in my veins...

“Y-Yosano-sensei.”

I tried to crack a smile but found my face feeling oddly stiff and frozen.

“Yeah, I guess I am... Dazai-san said you were going to heal me?”

Yosano’s smile widened.

“But of course, my dear.”

Her black-gloved fingers went for the buttons of her lab coat and that’s when I realized she hadn’t been wearing her tie. In fact, she wasn’t even wearing her shirt.

I suddenly wished I’d opted for a normal hospital...

“Welcome to my special operating room,” Dr. Yosano continued, slowly shrugging off her white lab coat. “I’m sure Tanizaki-kun has told you plenty of stories about what happens here, but let me be the first to reassure you...”

Her lab coat dropped to the floor and she kicked it under a tarp.

“It’s not as bad as he makes it sound.”

My eyes widened.

There were tarps everywhere, covering the other chairs, the floor—even the surgeon’s lamp over my head was covered in a thin sheet of plastic.

“Y-Y-Yosano-sensei...”

I could hear my own teeth chattering as I spoke.

“Wh-why’s everything covered in plastic? What are you—?”

I heard a heavy thunk.

Clad in only a lacy black bra and a matching set of panties, Dr. Yosano had dropped her thick black faux-leather bag on the ground and was now bent over it, fumbling with all sorts of things that jangled and clattered with a jarring metallic frequency. I couldn’t see past the edge of the table where she crouched but I could definitely hear her squeal of delight when she found what she was looking for.

“Kyou-chan.”

Something gleamed from underneath my table and I bit back a scream when I saw Yosano rise from the floor with an actual honest-to-God machete—the kind I once saw in a horror movie—in her gloved hands. The shine of the machete’s long, polished blade was reflected in the manic glint in her purple eyes and as I struggled against my bonds, I fully understood why the patients in this room needed to be strapped down.

“I believe I once told you how my Ability works, yes?” she whispered. “That I can heal you back to perfect health so long as you’re on the verge of death? Well, unfortunately, Kitten... you’re not quite there yet.”

“Unfortunately?!”

I started to shake.

“See, that’s where this beauty comes in,” the good doctor explained, running one finger along the edge of the blade. “You’re not quite injured enough, so I have to speed the process along. I mean...”

She shot me a pointed look.

“You do want to get better quick, don’t you?”

I didn’t have the courage to shake my head ‘no.’ For some reason, I found myself nodding instead.

“Good. In that case...”

Running her tongue over her glossy pink lips, Yosano approached.

“The doctor is in.”

Slowly, lovingly, she leaned in and tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear. The golden butterfly shone in her short, dark hair.

“It’s not very often I get to patch up a girl,” Yosano crooned, her fingers deftly sliding from behind my ear down the line of my jaw. “Kyouka-chan is very good at avoiding severe injury you see, and it’s not like the office girls ever see combat...”

She cupped my chin and lifted my face up towards hers.

“But don’t worry, Kitten,” she whispered softly, “I promise I’ll take good care of you...”

She let go of me, raised the machete high into the air and let out an absolutely maniacal laugh.

“Hold still.”

She swung.

The last thing I heard before her machete buried itself in my flesh was the sound of my own terrified screams ringing in my ears.

***

“All done!” Yosano called brightly.

Fully clothed once again, she threw open the door to the main office, which hit the wall with a loud crack but not even that was enough to shake me from my stupor.

With no wheelchair available in the Agency infirmary, Dr. Yosano was forced to cart me into the room on a dolly, the kind that movers normally used to bring furniture into a house. While the wheels squeaked against the tiles below me, I sat mutely on the flat metal surface, staring straight ahead with blank, unseeing eyes in an upright fetal position. My knees were drawn up against my chest and my arms were wound so tightly around my body that I was cutting off the circulation the good doctor had just restored. But it’s not like having any amount of blood flow would’ve made a difference.

I was still feeling completely numb from the trauma of what had just happened. Had I spent the entire night in the infirmary? Two nights? I wasn’t sure. All I knew was that it was mid-morning, that there was bright sunlight streaming in through every open window but I was still feeling cold and numb in a way that had nothing to do with my body.

Someone approached and it took me a full ten seconds to remember where I had seen his concerned face before.

Tanizaki Junichiro frowned.

“Told you,” he mouthed without actually speaking, shooting a nervous, furtive look up at the terrifying woman who had literally just cut me apart and put me back together again.

“Come on,” he mumbled instead, struggling to pry my arms away from my body. “Let’s get you to your desk. You can pass out safely behind your laptop the way the rest of us do after ‘treatment’...”

As he gripped my wrists over the jacket sleeves and pulled me off the dolly, I looked up into his face, full recognition dawning at last. I tried to speak but found my mouth unable to cooperate with my brain.

“T...T...”

Tanizaki raised an eyebrow.

“Yes?”

“T...Ta...Ta...!”

Tanizaki was now looking slightly disturbed.

“What is it, Kusunoki-san?”

Unable to hold back any longer, I burst into tears.

“Tanizaki-kunnnn!!!!” I wailed, latching onto the redhead’s waist.

“What the—?!” Tanizaki squawked, instantly blanching. “Kusunoki-san, get a hold of yourself!”

“I was so scared!” I bawled, hanging on tighter even as Tanizaki tried to peel me off of him. “You were right! You were right about everything! I swear, I’ll never let myself get hurt ever again! I’M SO SORRY—”

“Kusunoki-san...”

Hiccuping, tears and snot running down my face as I clutched at the ends of the red sweatshirt Tanizaki tied around his waist, I turned to my left to see Naomi, standing there with a chilling look in her dark blue eyes.

“May I ask you why you’re hanging on so tightly to my dear brother?” she asked, her voice no louder than a whisper. “Is there something I need to know?”

Shaking my head, I was forced to let go as Tanizaki finally succeeded in pushing me away. I hit the ground with a sharp smack as Junichiro ran to his sister’s side, apologizing profusely and begging her not to take it out on him later on tonight, at which point I finally remembered to clap my hands over my ears and do my best not to listen.

Fortunately for me, someone else’s indignant shout suddenly shook the room.

“Like I said before, we’re the Armed Detective Agency, not the Lost and Found! Go take that thing to the police station instead!”

As one, we all turned to the door to see Edogawa Ranpo, standing in the doorway looking extremely irritated, with his arms loaded to the brim with an actual stack of pastry boxes. Behind him was a rather short, thin young man with close-cropped brown hair in a black tie and gray slacks—a regular office worker from the look of him. He was clutching a pink embroidered handkerchief in one hand.

“Now let go!”

Scowling, Edogawa snatched the end of his brown poncho out of the young man’s other hand and stomped into the room, the boxes in his arms wobbling dangerously as he went. Suddenly spotting me, he stopped walking and paused to squint at me.

“Oh, Kusunoki.”

Edogawa looked me up and down and frowned.

“I heard you got sent to the Infirmary. You all better now?”

When I gave him a very shaky nod, Edogawa nodded approvingly, then jabbed an index finger back at the guy in the doorway and demanded:

“Then do something about this guy, will you?”

“Do something?” I repeated, glancing towards the door.

The office worker waved.

“What... do you want me to do?” I asked blankly.

Edogawa slapped a palm over his face.

“Ugh. Do I have to do everything around here?” he griped. “Here—!”

He shoved the boxes in my arms and I let out a tiny squeak as I struggled to keep them all from falling over.

“Take these to my desk—and if you drop a single one, you’re going out to buy me two of whatever hits the floor. You!”

He jabbed his finger at the guy in the doorway once again. When the office worker perked up, Edogawa pointed in the direction of the client booth.

“In there.”

No sooner had I finished putting the boxes of pastries on Edogawa’s desk (taking extra care not to drop or smush a single thing) than the Great Detective grabbed me by the back of my shirt and dragged me to the client booth. The young man was already sitting and appeared to be fiddling slightly with the handkerchief in his hands.

I sat down opposite him.

“I’m Kusunoki,” I said, bowing slightly. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Miura,” the office guy said, also bowing awkwardly. “Thank you for your time.”

I glanced up at Edogawa, who had not taken a seat on the detectives’ side with me. His arms were crossed and he was tapping his foot impatiently.

“Tell her what you just told me,” he ordered.

“Uh, yes!” Miura stammered. “You see, I found this earlier today, at the subway entrance around the corner from here.”

He held up the pink handkerchief. There was a capitalized “R” embroidered in one corner and it looked slightly damp, as if the young man had taken the time to wash it in the sink before bringing it in.

“I don’t know who dropped it but, if it’s not too much trouble, could you help me return it to the rightful owner?” Miura asked.

“Uh, Miura-san,” I started, shooting a quick look over my shoulder at Edogawa, who was standing behind me and seemed only to be growing more irritated with every passing second.

Clearly he didn’t want to be kept from his pastries while they were still hot and fresh...

“I hate to repeat what my senpai said earlier, but...” I pressed my lips together. “We’re not the Lost and Found. Lost items are better off being returned to the police station—”

“But you’re a detective agency aren’t you?” Miura pressed. “I heard you’re the best in Yokohama! My friends tell me you solve cases the police can’t handle. They told me...”

He dropped his voice and looked around even though the door to the client booth was closed and the three of us were clearly alone in here.

“They told me a newcomer solved that recent serial kidnapping in their first week here—”

I flushed.

“Oh, uh, that—”

“—and that if all else fails, you have the power of a legendary genius at your disposal—”

“That is absolutely, one-hundred percent correct!” Edogawa crowed, suddenly beaming like he was being interviewed on TV.

I turned all the way around in my chair to gawk at Edogawa just as he slammed both hands on my shoulders and shook me in a friendly, if somewhat overly excitable way.

“In fact...”

He grinned and I suddenly felt the need to run.

“Kusunoki-kun here is the one who caught the serial kidnapper! And she’d be more than happy to help you return the handkerchief.”

My jaw dropped as Miura looked on in amazement.

“Ranpo-san, what—?!”

“On two conditions. One...”

Edogawa held up a finger.

“You buy the whole office a party-sized box of pastries from that new macaron shop downtown.”

I balked but Miura only nodded readily.

“Two...”

Edogawa held up a second finger.

“You have to go with her when it’s time to return the handkerchief. In fact, I want you to be the one to personally hand it over to the owner.”

Edogawa shot me a meaningful look.

“You got that?”

I breathed in sharply as I suddenly understood his meaning.

Edogawa wanted me to see into this man’s future and find the person he hands it back to. But how was I supposed to do that when I didn’t know when this event was going to take place?

As if reading my thoughts, Edogawa motioned me closer.

“You said that before,” he whispered in my ear, “when you looked into my future, you saw a massive book, right? And that there was writing in it, right?”

I nodded.

“Look for the word ‘handkerchief,’” Edogawa instructed me.

And with that last bit of advice, he patted my shoulder and walked out of the client booth.

‘Look for the word ‘handkerchief?’’

I frowned. I must’ve still been a little dazed from Yosano’s “treatment,” because this made no sense. Look for a word... Look for a word...? Why would Edogawa instruct me to do something like this? Unless...?

I let out a soft gasp as it came to me.

Edogawa really was brilliant...

Taking my cell phone out of my pocket, I set a timer to “vibrate,” and tucked it back inside my coat pocket. I turned to Miura and stuck out my other hand.

“Can I see the handkerchief?”

Miura nodded and as he passed the handkerchief to me over the table, I carefully switched on the timer and reached out for Miura’s hand.

If this worked, I’d have a new way to use my Ability...

My fingers brushed against Miura’s just as the timer went off and I closed my eyes and let the vibrations wash over me.

I felt a pull—just the slightest of tugs on the tips of my fingers, as if a small child were yanking on them and leading me forward. Taking a deep breath in, I concentrated on the sensation and let it lead me away...

...And I floated down, weightless, and sank into that dark tunnel once more.

When I opened my eyes again, my body had disappeared. All that was left of me was a pair of eyes and the memory of a form I’d long since left behind. Taking a moment to look around, I examined my surroundings. Words, silvery and undefined, twinkled all around me like stars, floating in the air in long, sparkling columns, like strings of crystal beads hanging from a massive chandelier. I quickly spotted the four walls of the tunnel and the four corners where the walls met and nodded to myself (or at least that’s what it felt like) as I realized I was once again in a giant, translucent book.

This was the “Story of Miura’s Life.”

I stared ahead of me, down the “tunnel” that was actually not a tunnel, but reams and reams of transparent pages and considered the task ahead.

Edogawa had said to look for the word “handkerchief.” Basically, he wanted me to find the very next instance of the word “handkerchief” and touch it to “activate” the vision—in the same way I’d done with the date and time when I’d looked into Edogawa’s future.

But what if the word showed up multiple times in Miura’s future? How was I supposed to know which one to touch?

Feeling nervous, I looked around and randomly selected a word to focus on. As before, the longer I stared at it, the more it began to take shape and within moments, the silvery amorphous blobs to my left condensed and became a legible set of characters.

“Armed Detective Agency.”

Okay, not what I needed.

I glanced back down at the hall of loosely glittering words and grimaced.

I may have found my way back to that strange metaphysical space where a person’s future was written down as if it were a literal story, but today the situation was different. If the words didn’t properly materialize until I spent enough time looking at them, how was I supposed to pick out a single word like, “handkerchief,” much less get to it in time before Miura got weirded out by my so-called “narcolepsy” and pulled away?

If only Edogawa was in here with me to give me some kind of hint...!

Fighting the growing sense of panic, I closed my “eyes” once again and tried to focus.

Concentrate. Think about the words you’re looking for. What exactly are the words you need to see?

Without thinking about what I was doing, I wrote the words “return the pink handkerchief” in the air.

At once, there was a sound like a chime. I opened my eyes to see the words I’d written hanging in the air, glowing before my eyes like molten gold. But before I could reach out and touch them, they shot off into the distance, streaking through the book like a shooting star in the sky.

I ran after it, phasing right through the translucent pages like a ghost, silvery words parting around me like curtains and fluttering in my wake. My Ability was guiding me—taking me to the exact moment I needed to see. I stopped running as the glimmer of gold stopped moving at last, shining like a beacon in the air, just up ahead of me. Knowing instinctively what I had to do, I reached forward and touched it, shielding my eyes as the entire page in front of me suddenly materialized like a solid wall.

I’m standing in front of a train station.

I’m halfway across town, nowhere near the place I picked it up, but the detective girl is insisting this is the place...

The clock nearby chimes three times... It’s two in the afternoon, a full week after I first picked up the handkerchief...

I sigh and glance down at the handkerchief in my hand, this tiny pink square I happened to pick up. I stare at the softly embroidered “R.” Something about this feels familiar but I’m not sure what...

I look up. A girl is walking towards me. She’s not really looking up at me or any of the other people around us but at the ground. She has softly curled, light brown hair and big eyes and—woah!! She’s really cute!

I can feel my heart beating faster as she approaches. Her skirt and purse are the same color as the handkerchief in my hands.

Panicking, I wave to the dark-haired girl behind me, the detective—oh man, she’s not even standing anywhere close is she? I can’t see the look on her face but she’s mumbling something, pushing me towards the girl with the pink skirt.

I can’t do this—I can’t!!

My mouth’s already open—too late!

“Excuse me, Miss,” I hear myself say.

Uwaaah... she’s looking at me... What do I do?! She’s so freaking cute...

I hold out the handkerchief

“Are you looking for this?”

She stops, she stares at me and her hands fly to her lips. She’s nodding...!

Suddenly, the girl disappeared. Darkness fell over my eyes, something pressed against my face and I let out a strangled gasp when I realized I was now back in the physical world. The handkerchief slipped right out of my hands.

“Guess who?” a warm, familiar tenor whispered right into my ear.

“What the—Dazai?!” I shrieked.

Irritated, I reached up and tried to remove his large half-bandaged hands, but before I could grab hold, Dazai jerked my head to the side and laughed.

“Let go of me!”

“Not until you turn around to check~!” Dazai sang.

“Dazai, I know it’s you,” I snapped, getting to my feet, “so take your hands—”

Wrenching his hands away at last, I spun to face him. But as the cool air hit my face at last, I realized my cheeks were wet.

I froze.

I hadn’t been crying, so that could only mean one thing...

Gingerly, I reached up and brought the tips of my fingers to the area below my eyes. They came away wet with flecks of bright, red, fresh blood.

“...shit.”

Had Miura seen...?

At once, Dazai gasped dramatically.

“Oh my gosh, Kusunoki-kun!” he cried, frantically digging a handkerchief out of his own pocket. “I’m so sorry! Your makeup is all smudged.”

He smushed his handkerchief against my face and stared smearing at the area over my eyes.

“But don’t worry, I’ll fix it!”

“Ah—wait—Dazai-san, stop!!” I sputtered, making a face as part of the hankie went into my open mouth. I spat it out and tried to fight him off as he kept wiping at my eyes.

“I said stop! I can do it myself!”

“But I wanna help,” Dazai whined as I finally snatched the hankie from him and held it up against my eyes.

“I think you’ve helped enough,” I mumbled.

Clearing my throat, I tried to turn around so I could speak to Miura again. Unfortunately, because I couldn’t take the hankie away from my eyes, I ended up doing an awkward shuffle and bumping back into my own chair instead. I hissed as a bruise appeared on my shin and immediately scowled as I heard Dazai stifle a tiny snicker behind me. Thankfully, before I could hurt myself further, I felt Dazai’s hands at my back as he helped guide me in the right direction.

“Uh, Miura-san?”

I did a sort of half-bow in apology, hoping I didn’t look too stupid doing it (what if I was bowing at the wall the way Katai had done with me?!). At least Dazai hadn’t laughed this time, so maybe I was safe...

“Yes...?” Miura’s voice sounded tiny and unsure, and thankfully, was coming from right in front of me.

“I can figure out who that pink handkerchief belongs to, but you’re going to have to give me some time,” I babbled. “Do you think you could meet me back here in a week? Around one in the afternoon?”

“One in the afternoon?” Miura asked, sounding ecstatic.

There was a loud clattering noise as he hurriedly got to his feet, nearly knocking over the table from the sound of it.

“Yes, Detective! I’ll set my calendar—oh crap, it’s this late already?!”

I heard the glass door slide open, followed immediately by the sound of running feet.

“I gotta go back to work,” he called, his voice growing quieter as he ran further out into the hall, “But I’ll be back! See you in a week Miss Detective!”

There was a bang—the front door of the Agency office slammed shut and I took Dazai’s handkerchief away from my eyes at last.

“Oh my God, that was too close!” I gasped, turning to the tall, bandaged detective beside me. “Do you think he saw the blood?”

“Judging from his reaction, probably not,” Dazai said, shrugging.

“Thank goodness...” I moaned, sagging on my feet in relief.

I probably should’ve expected something like this to happen, given what happened the last time I used my power with Edogawa. But in all honesty, I’d expected the side effects to be a little better this time...

I should probably have more control by now. After all, Edogawa hadn’t seemed worried...

Shoulders slumping a little, I glanced down at Dazai’s handkerchief and winced. Two bright red spots, roughly the size of a pair of ten-yen coins, had bloomed like rose petals in the middle of the white and gray striped cloth. They were still wet to the touch. I crumpled the handkerchief in my hand and sighed.

“Thanks for helping me out back there, Dazai-san...” I mumbled sheepishly. “I’m... sorry about your handkerchief. I’ll go wash it for you.”

But as I took a step towards the open door, Dazai shook his head.

“You don’t have to do that right now, Kusunoki-kun,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Yes, it is!” I insisted, to Dazai’s apparent surprise. “President Fukuzawa asked you to keep my Ability a secret, didn’t you? You really helped me out back there. I mean...”

I chewed the inside of my cheek. Heat crawled up my neck as I remembered that the last time I’d interacted with him, he’d been carrying me (princess style) around because I was injured. I suddenly couldn’t look him in the face.

“It’s not only that... you saved me from getting blown up after I fought Akutagawa. You... you saved my life. Dazai-san, I...”

I twisted the handkerchief in my hands. My face felt hot.

“I... owe you one,” I finished lamely, staring at his feet.

For a moment, silence reigned. Dazai watched me quietly as I fidgeted with my hands in front of him. Then he raised an eyebrow.

“You owe me one, huh...?” he asked, rubbing his chin. “Well...”

I looked up just in time to see a familiar smirk crossing his face and before I could stop him or even react, he walked over to the door and started pulling it closed.

“I can think of a few ways for you to pay me back,” he whispered, his dark eyes gleaming with possibility. “In fact, why don’t you keep that handkerchief. You might need it later...”

My breath hitched in my throat.

“What do you mean by that, Dazai-san?”

“Oh, I think you know exactly what I mean...”

I took a step back, only to hit my chair again and I cursed as I accidentally sat back down in it.

“What’s the matter, Kusunoki?”

Two half-bandaged hands shot out and grasped the armrests. I glanced up only to find myself staring directly into Dazai’s chocolate brown eyes. His lips parted seductively.

“You seem a little nervous.”

“I-I’m not nervous,” I stammered, heat flooding into my face. I struggled not to squirm in my seat as Dazai’s grin widened.

“I just want to know why you closed the door...!”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Dazai asked.

His dark, tousled bangs fell into his eyes as he cocked his head to the side.

“I wanted to make sure we weren’t interrupted.”

“Inter...?”

My cheeks were on fire. My voice was no louder than a squeak. I shrank back into the chair as Dazai slowly leaned in close.

“After all,” he murmured, his voice low and husky in my ear. “This is a very personal matter...”

“Dazai-san...!”

This was it. My heart was beating way too fast and my face felt so hot, my brain was probably boiling over. I was going to pass out on the spot...!

I closed my eyes and braced myself. But to my surprise, nothing happened. Instead, I heard the flapping of paper and when I opened my eyes, a sealed envelope had appeared before my eyes. I blinked at it.

Dazai grinned.

“For you,” he said sweetly.

I stared, looking from Dazai to the envelope and back.

“Eh?” was all I could manage as Dazai placed the envelope in my hand and went to take a seat on the coffee table in front of me.

“What?”

He propped his chin up in his half-bandaged hands and looked at me.

“Disappointed?”

I scowled and returned my attention to the envelope, my cheeks burning in humiliation and rage.

“You wish,” I snapped, refusing to look at him as I tore it open. “And you know what? I take back what I said earlier, I...”

I trailed off as I looked inside the envelope. There was only one thing inside and I grew quiet as I lifted it out.

It was a Polaroid—a very old one—and the rectangular image nestled within the yellowed, off-white frame was grainy and faded with age. I could see three people in the picture, all laughing and smiling as they toasted one another with tiny cups of sake. They looked like they were having the time of their lives. Squinting at them, I brought the picture closer to my face, peering more carefully at the two figures on the left and I let out a soft gasp as I finally recognized them as a much younger Mr. and Mrs. Yamazaki. They were wearing their wedding clothes—the same clothes they were wearing in the big photo in Mrs. Yamazaki’s apartment—and as I followed their gaze to the left of the photo, I realized I knew who the third person was.

He had to be the former president of Tanaka Investments—Tanaka Ichiro’s uncle, the man who started the business. The more I stared at him, the more I began to see the family resemblance: the angle of the jawline, the shape of the nose...

I lowered the photo and looked at Dazai.

“Where... did you get this?”

“Shimada-san dropped this off last night while you were resting in the infirmary,” the bandaged detective answered. “He said to tell you, ‘President Tanaka sends his regards.’”

My eyes widened.

“He did?”

Dazai nodded.

And as I glanced back down at the photo, I thought I saw something written in black on the back side. I flipped it over.

“To Tanaka Isshun,” I read aloud, “Thank you for everything. I owe you my life... Yamazaki Shuji.”

I grew quiet. Dazai took his chin out of his hands and sat up.

“Something wrong, Kusunoki-kun?” he asked. “You look confused.”

I put the photo down and glanced up at him.

“I... I don’t understand,” I said. “If President Tanaka had this in his possession the whole time, then why would he have told me that Shuji-san was a bad person?”

Dazai’s eyebrows drew together.

“When did he tell you this?”

“Yesterday,” I said, thinking hard. “Or maybe it was the day before...?”

I shrank down in my seat a little as I told him the truth.

“It was the day you were in Nagano...”

“Ah.”

Dazai’s expression grew placid. I looked away from him and back at the photo.

“I-in any case, he said Shuji-san was desperate to escape Nagano, that he was willing to do anything it took to leave CORVID, include faking his own death. If this photo tells the truth, then why...?”

The photo wrinkled in my hand.

“Why did he give me this?”

Dazai grew quiet. Noticing my hand was shaking, he gently took the photo from me and examined it.

“I think...” he said quietly, lowering his eyes and scanning the picture, “that this is a thank you present. A gift for the rookie detective who saved him from being killed by a car bomb in that dingy parking garage.”

His expression softened into a smile as he handed the photo back.

“It’s also an apology.”

“Apology...?”

Confused, I took the photo from him.

“For what?”

“You remember that conversation we had back there in the conference room?” Dazai asked, as I looked back up at him. “The one about the goodly apple? About whether or not the apple is still good when you finally learn the truth?”

I nodded.

“Well,” Dazai said, his deep brown eyes sparkling as he regarded me, “I think this is President Tanaka’s way of saying you were right. That Yamazaki Shuji was, in fact, a good person.”

He leaned forward, his expression gentle.

“While I was in Nagano, I got to talk to Shuji-san’s family,” he said. “Do you want to know the reason why he wanted to leave CORVID?”

He leaned forward and tapped the photo.

“I heard he left...”

The tip of his finger brushed Mrs. Yamazaki’s face. Dazai smiled.

“So that he could get married.”

I breathed in sharply.

As I stared at the photo in my hands, at Mrs. Yamazaki’s smiling face, Dazai stood.

“I have one more present for you. And before you say you don’t want it,” he said, waving me off as I opened my mouth to protest, “It’s not from me.”

He placed a second envelope in my hands. Inside was a short letter and a beautiful bookmark in the shape of a flowering tree branch.

“It’s from Tomie-san’s family,” he said as I took out the bookmark. “They wanted to say thank you for saving her.”

“But I...”

I swallowed thickly. A lump was forming in my throat.

“I didn’t...”

I heard my own voice crack as I spoke. I hung my head.

“I didn’t save her,” I whispered.

As I stared at the photograph in my left hand, Mrs. Yamazaki’s smiling face began to blur.

“She was still murdered a week later... How could they still think I saved her...?”

“Because you gave her an extra week.”

Something large and warm settled on my head. I felt Dazai’s fingers slipping through my hair as my eyes began to burn and sting.

“A full seven extra days that she was able to spend with the people she loved, who loved her in return.”

Dazai smiled, his expression tender.

“And those seven extra days may have meant more to them than you and I could ever know.”

** A single drop fell onto the photo, followed swiftly by another.

“See,” Dazai said, as one by one, the tears began to fall like spring rain onto Mr. and Mrs. Yamazaki’s smiling faces.

“I told you that you’d need the handkerchief later.”

Taking the photo from me, Dazai reached over and placed a comforting arm around my shoulders as I broke down at last.

“In the end you were right, Kusunoki-kun,” he whispered, gently rubbing my back as I cried into my hands. “I guess all a goodly apple needs to be a goodly apple... is someone to believe in it.”

#bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs #dazai x oc #dazai x reader #yosano akiko #bsd dazai #bsd dazai osamu #dazai #dazai osamu

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that-one-gay-girl · 4 years

Text

Gone - Ch.1

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 2348

Summary: When the group thinks they have a simple salt and burn the case takes a turn for the worse and changes the lives of everyone forever.

Warning: possible character death, angst, sad dean (yes that's a warning), violence

A/N: This story is inspired by Ed Sheeran’s All of the Stars. The words in bold is the section that inspired this story, also with my job being very slow until kids come back to in person learning I'll probably continue to post more often. Once kids come back to school I won’t have as much free time to write sadly.

“It’s just another night, and I’m staring at the moon. I saw a shooting star and I thought of you.” Dean looked across the empty passenger seat where you used to sit. Another tear slips down Dean's face as he wipes it away harshly, “How did this happen?” he cries out in the front seat of the impala.

-three months ago-

The hunt was going great,it was a simple salt and burn, an in and out job. When the case was finished the three of you went back to the motel. You went to pick up food for everyone and saw a group of witches kill a man in the alleyway. You knew there was no way you’d be able to take them down yourself so you sped back to the motel to tell the boys what you saw. From that night it took another two weeks before the three of you pinned the witches down to one location. The three of you had managed to kill all the witches except the leader. Dean and Sam were pinned against the wall while the witch threw you across the dirty floor, the sickening sound of your bones cracking echoed through the room as you hit the ground. You were on the floor trying to break free from whatever kept you from moving when multiple knives cut through your body.

Another knife was plunged through your body all the while, the witch laughed maniacally. Screams tore your throat apart as the witch continued her assault. Dean and Sam's shouts were barely heard over your screaming. Before anyone else could move Cas appeared behind the witch driving a blade through her heart, killing her instantly. Sam and Dean drop to the ground as the magic force breaks. Dean runs to your side instantly trying to stop the bleeding but your body is covered in deep gashes everywhere. “You’re going to be ok Y/n, Cas! You have to heal her!” He screams at the angel. Cas presses two fingers to your head a few cuts healing slightly, but nothing more. “I’m sorry Dean, I’m too weak to heal her.” Dean's hands press harder against your abdomen trying to stop the bleeding from the biggest wound. “You are not dying! You h-hear me? Keep those beautiful eyes open for me baby.” Dean picks you up as you groan in pain, you cough harshly as blood spills from your mouth. Sam and Cas run ahead of Dean getting into the impala. Dean gets into the back carefully with you as Sam slams on the Gas speeding to the hospital. “D-Dean, I love you” Your voice cracks weakly as your eyes grow heavy. “Y/n open your eyes! Y/n!” Dean panics as your eyes close,your body going limp. “No! Sam drives faster!” He screams, tears streaming down his face.

Swinging into the parking lot Sam slams on the break, the sound of screeching asphalt heard through the silent night. Dean runs into the emergency room with you in his arms. “Help! She's hurt and she just stopped breathing! Help her dammit!” He screams at the medical staff as they place your body on a stretcher moving you into a trauma room. A nurse holds Dean back as he tries to enter the room. “Sir, they need to help her and they can’t do that with you in the room.” Dean tries to fit his way into the room again when he hears a doctor shout, “I’ve got a pulse!” Dean stops fighting then, the news that you are indeed alive helps him just enough to move and sit in the waiting room. Sam and Cas join Dean shortly after, for hours the three of them sit in uncomfortable hospital chairs, waiting, hoping, and praying that you will pull through this and be ok. When a nurse comes out she informs the group of men that you are alive but still unstable and will be in surgery for the next several hours.

5 hours later a Doctor comes out looking exhausted. “Is there any family for Elise Maine?” Dean recognizes the fake name he gave the hospital immediately. He quickly punches Sam's shoulder to wake him before walking to the doctor. “Is she ok?” Dean asks worriedly. The only news he’d gotten in the past 10 hours was that you were alive but in bad condition. Sam walks up next to Dean as the Doctor begins to share your condition. “It was a long surgery, but she pulled through” the doctor smiles weakly “Unfortunately, the damage done to her body was extensive. She came in with multiple stab wounds, a skull fracture, a damaged leg, and major blood loss. The stab wounds we were able to repair and we are giving her blood transfusions to replace the lost blood. Our neurosurgeon fixed the skull fracture but she will have to be monitored closely. The one thing we were unable to repair was the leg, the leg was badly broken and had a major infection. We had no choice but to amputate.” Dean keeps his eyes trained on the ground as he listens to the doctor share the news. “I-is there anything else? Can I see her?” He asks, his voice cracking. “Due to the blood loss her body has gone into a coma, we don’t know when or if she will wake up. I can show you to her room but I have to prepare you. There's lots of wires, machines and she has a tube in her throat to help her breathe.” Dean nods his head as he follows the doctor. Sam sits back in his chair to give Dean some time alone to process everything.

Dean spent another three hours in your room before his tears stopped. He would do everything in his power to protect you and help you. He knew with the loss of your leg hunting might be out of the cards for a while...or forever, he thought to himself. So that is what Dean did, everyday for three months he sat beside you holding your hand talking to you, keeping you company, and promising to protect you no matter what.Throughout the months Dean and Sam would take shifts with you, never leaving you alone for long. One evening Sam came up to the hospital that day to switch out with Dean so he could go home to shower and eat. “I’ll be back in two hours, call me if anything changes” He says to Sam, leaning down and kissing your forehead, “I’ll be quick sweetie.”

As Dean drives back to the bunker, he passes a field and pulls off parking baby, He turns off the engine staring at the stars for a few minutes before breaking down. “It’s just another night, and I’m staring at the moon. I saw a shooting star and I thought of you.”

Dean looked across the empty passenger seat where you used to sit. Another tear slips down Dean's face as he wipes it away harshly, “How did this happen?” he cries out, eyes drifting shut slowly, exhaustion pulling him down.

Dean is startled awake by the ringing of his phone and sits up groggily rubbing his sore neck. Looking at the clock he notices he’s been asleep for three hours. Quickly grabbing the phone he picks up the phone. “Sam? Is Y/n ok!?” he questions “Dean you need to get back here. Now.” Sam hangs up the phone before Dean can speak again. Tossing the phone in the seat beside him Dean speeds off towards the hospital different scenarios playing through his head. Were you dead? Another complication? As Dean pulls into a parking spot, he runs into the hospital taking the elevator to your room. The moment the doors opened Dean was out and turning the corner to get to your room. The blinds were still closed, but Dean could hear laughter coming from the room. Without wasting another second Dean throws open the door, his eyes landing on your body sitting up in the bed laughing. “Oh my God.” the words spill from his mouth.

-2 hours earlier-

Sam was sitting in the chair next to your bed reading aloud Harry Potter, one of your favorite books. Sam knew it was silly but he thought if he did things you liked it would help you wake up. So he would read you Harry Potter, play your favorite music, and watch movies with you. All while you laid in a coma. The monitors started beeping slightly before stopping. Sam looked up from the book looking you over and seeing no changes, so he pays no mind to it. he begins reading again when the monitors start beeping rapidly. “Nurse! I need help here!” Sam throws open the door shouting. Nurses and Doctors run in pushing Sam out of the room and closing the door. 20 minutes later the door opens again as the nurses and doctors exit. The doctor walks over to Sam a small smile on his face, “She’s awake. We are going to need to take her for some testing shortly but I would go ahead and call her husband.” The doctor pats Sam on the shoulder before leaving.

The nurse in your room adjusts the bed so you are sitting up. She helps you drink some water to ease the pain in your throat. “Where am I?” you question her in a scratchy voice. “You’re at Northwest Regional” she responds as she gives you medicine before leaving. You look around trying to remember everything that happens. The last thing you remember was being thrown like a ragdoll and stabbed by the witch but then it’s blank. The doctor told you they amputated your leg, but you hadn’t been able to bring yourself to look yet. Taking a deep breath you throw the covers off you, staring down at the space where your leg used to be. You quickly cover your lower half of your body as the door opens. Looking up you see the tall figure of Sam Winchester. “Sam!” you say relieved. “Where's Dean?” you ask him curiously. “I just called him, he’ll be here soon. How are you feeling?” you shrug in response “I guess I’m a little sore but that's probably expected when you're in a coma for months.” you joke. “Cracking jokes already? It’s like nothing ever happened.” He responds with a bright smile. “I'll never hunt again will I?” you ask him quietly. “Let’s just worry about getting you all healed up. They had to take you to surgery about two weeks ago for a complication so you’ve got some fresh wounds.” he tells you solemnly. “Alright, so catch me up on what I've missed” you say, pushing back your emotions.

As Sam tells you everything that's happened in 3 months you can’t help but laugh, “Jody got on dating apps?” you laugh as the door to your room opens and Dean walks in, “Oh my God”. You look up at the new voice in the room recognizing Dean immediately. He had a beard now and you would be lying if you didn’t think he looked good. “Dean” you smile. He rushes over to you pulling your body into his. “I never thought I would see those beautiful eyes again” He cries as he kisses you. “Hey, I’m right here besides if I die, who would keep you in check?” you joke as tears fall from your eyes. “I’ll give you guys some time alone,” Sam says as he steps out of the room. Taking Sam’s seat Dean asks you, “How are you feeling? Are you ok? Are you in pain? Have the doctors told you everything?” He shoots questions rapidly at you. “I'm fine, a little sore but they gave me pain meds, and yeah...they told me everything” you say glancing quickly at where your leg used to be. “When can I leave this place?” you ask holding Dean's hand, not wanting him to leave your side. “Well, we will have to talk to the doctors but let's not rush anything ok? You need time to heal and I don’t want you pushing yourself too hard.” he tells you sincerely. Only nodding in response laying back down you close your eyes as you fall into a medicine induced sleep.

-one week later-

The nurse comes in with a wheelchair as you zip up your jacket, it was now snowing outside and you were finally being released from the hospital. “Ok, all your stuff is packed and in the car” Sam says as the nurse helps you into the wheelchair “I put all her discharge information in the clear bag, along with her medications and physical therapy information, if she experiences any unusual pain please come in right away.” she tells Dean and Sam. “Thank you for your help” Dean says as they help you into the impala, you can’t help the smile creeping on your face as you feel the leather seats of Baby against you.

The drive home is quiet, Dean and Sam help you into the wheelchair and guide you to your shared room with Dean. “How about a shower to wash all that hospital stuff off?” Dean asks you as they set your bags down. “Just run a bath please” you say looking down at the stump of your leg. Wiping away tears roughly. Sam leaves the room as Dean takes you to the bathroom running the bath. Once Dean lowers you into the bathtub, Dean sits on the toilet as he washes your hair. In the next moment the damn burst and all the emotions and pain you’d been pushing down breaks through. “I love you, and you are going to get through this Y/n.” He tells you stroking your hair holding you as you cry. “Dean, I'm useless, I’ll never hunt again, I can’t even take a damn shower!” you cry out. Dean holds back tears of his own as he responds. I’ve got you, shh…I’ve got you baby”

Chapter 2

Dean/Jensen Taglist:

@akshi8278 @hobby27

#dean x reader #dean winchester #supernatural fic #supernatural reader insert #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural #series #gone

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regardingseas · 3 years

Text

Title: Echoed Vexations (Part two)

Fandom: Hermitcraft

Rating: Teen and up audiences (violence warning)

AO3: here! (Full story at once)

•••

(PART ONE)

Beginning, summary, and warnings can be found there. Story continued under the cut.

•••

He regretted it instantly.

Catching sight of the white abyss behind Their eyes, the sanctions of his mind found themselves entangled in the monster's clutches. They weren't physically there, but he could feel them all the same-- tendrils like snakes burrowing into his brain, parasitic vermin that rooted themselves into his very core with a vice-like hold. He'd thrash, or fight, but that only ever ended in the pain spiking from a ten to an eleven, proven by the past, and again by Cub's screams of anguish as Scar barely bit back his sobs.

His thoughts echoed in his skull, looping over themselves as the Vex listened in like safe-crackers. He wanted not to think, not to have a single notion cross his mind, but an infinite number of processes scrambled through at once no matter what he tried.

Not being able to defend himself against such beings was humiliating in its own right. Rationally, he knew They were far more powerful than the average human, and a group of Them was nothing to sneeze at when they got serious. The Vex were a corrupt and cruel species who enjoyed little more than acquisitive riches and making others suffer, but as much as he was aware of that, it didn't make being beaten down by something an eighth of his size any less demeaning.

With that train of thought, Scar's auditory input from the outer world was replaced by ringing-- blood seeping out from his ears and from his nose not long after. The taste of copper was bitter on his tongue, mixing with the salt of tears and bile that had risen in his throat.

We're nothing but small, cruel, and materialistic? The concordats forget themselves so...

They will learn from this, mistakes make for better humans.

I think they've forgotten who they belong to.

He dared to think he didn't belong to Them, that he was his own, not even of his own accord, and still his air was cut off. His arms gave out next and he crumbled to the side, gagging on red and trembling as waves of pain crashed over his body. Scar gasped, but his lungs refused to fill, leaving him grasping at his throat and pleading internally.

Do you remember now?

One of Them, or maybe all of Them, had asked.

Do you remember our deal? Do you remember the emblem we burned into your skin when you agreed to join us?

I remember, he begged in his mind, I remember. I'm sorry. Please don't kill me, I'm so sorry. I belong to the Vex. I'm sorry.

Horrid laugher overtook his senses, and a feeble rush of air filled his chest before his consciousness began to fade.

You will never escape us.

They finalized, and his world went dark like the drawing of velvet curtains.

------

Back in the present, flashes of that day and many others raced through his head as if to mock his phobia of thinking itself. It was almost akin to watching his past unfold in third person, like he'd been detached from his body during the events. Bleary yet potent reenactments of metal patterns searing his flesh, of his bones shattering, of gashes and bruises and the life fading from his eyes. All the times he was made to expand their trade, slaving endlessly until his hands were stiff and immobile from overuse, but it still not being enough for Them. Annexing the rest of the industry, becoming number one, having two humans as their play things. Nothing was, or ever would be, enough for the Vex.

Scar's nails raked up his arms as he tried to feel anything other than Their coils invading his brain, doing all he could to reason with himself that they weren't real, for the logical part of him knew they weren't. His hands grasped for the brand ingrained into the flesh of his shoulder blade, fingers feverishly grazing over the risen tissue to find the divot and remind himself that the seal had been severed. His time with them was over. The symbol was broken.

"I'm- I'm safe..." he recited, "I'm away, I'm free, I'm okay…"

The words were more of a finding of his voice than a real reassurance, and Scar fumbled to pull his communicator from his pocket, aware of how much he needed to contact a proper support system. Tears blurred the screen, making the already jumbled letters more difficult to make out, but he managed to gather the necessary information.

He could call for Cub, but the man was away, and even if the notification were to alert him, such an event was likely to jump-start evocations of his own traumas.

Xisuma was available, but he didn't want to pester the already busy admin with his troubles anymore than he'd had to before. The kind man had already spent countless time and energy ensuring that they were all safe inside of the world barrier; a field in which no Vex could enter on Their own, nor abuse Their power if They were to be deliberately summoned by a rogue party. Admin magic, he was thankful for it to the nth degree, but he currently needed a real person in his presence more than anything.

Scar scanned the remaining names on his monitor. There was only one other Hermit who knew about what he'd been through, and he was practically imploring him to be around.

Grain.

There he was!

Scar would've sobbed in relief weren't he already weeping, left struggling to type out a private message to his friend.

<GoodTimeWithScar> Grian are you avaiavble?

<GoodTimeWithScar> i need your help, i'm at Mumbo's base

<GoodTimeWithScar> my base? i don't know, the monument

<Grian> sure am! whatcha need help with?

Scar's thumbs danced awkwardly above the keyboard, grappling with himself over what to say. It was always a struggle to express his troubles in the midst of panic, especially when doing so was a part of the problem. He knew he didn't have to go into depth with the other Hermit, however. That was another benefit of them being aware of one another's history; they didn't need to spill their guts in order to receive a helping hand.

<GoodTimeWithScar> i just need someone here

<GoodTimeWithScar> i can't seem to calm muself down right now

<GoodTimeWithScar> or type out messages poperbly it seems?

<GoodTimeWithScar> haha dang

<Grian> i'll be right there

<Grain> i'm at zedaph's cave, so the distance is a little further than usual, but you know i'm a fast flier

<Grain> so just hang tight, scar

<GoodTimeWithScar> i'm not going anjwhere

Scar dropped his hands to his side with a shaky breath, flinching when a sudden softness brushed against his hand. He glanced down only to see a concerned looking Jellie, the cat purring softly and nuzzling his arm. He cracked a feeble smile and reached out to pet behind her ear, her very presence providing a degree of comfort.

Much to his surprise, it truly wasn't long before the telltale beating of wings thumped through the air, Grain landing expertly in the grass and folding his feathered pinions snug behind his back.

"Scar?" he asked, cautiously approaching the other man.

Scar looked up to him, managing to raise a hand and wave as a greeting. Still wrought with trepidation, his shaking arms were scored with scratches he'd unconsciously inflicted while attempting to ground himself. Tear tracks lined his cheeks and his hair had become an unkempt mop, but he'd pulled through the worst of it.

"Oh, dude…" Grian said sympathetically, stepping over the rest of the way and crouching by his side. "It's alright, I'm here."

He nodded slow, "Thanks, Gri…"

The avian returned the nod and extended his hand, allowing Scar to take hold of it as a reminder of his security. "It's no problem. I see Jellie showed up to help, too."

"Yeah," Scar chuckled humourlessly, "She can always tell when I'm upset…"

"She's good like that," Grain confirmed, earning a well timed meow from the feline beside them.

They both let out a small laugh, Scar's being far weaker but present nonetheless.

"How about we get you away from all this noise and take care of those scratches?" Grain asked, and the other Hermit nodded again.

He helped Scar to his feet, leading him away from the distant thundering of the base's heart. They departed from the heights of the ruins, Grain ushering Scar to settle down against a tree once they were out of earshot of all the clamour.

"Let me see your arms, 'kay? I'll fix them right up."

Scar held out his scored arms after a moment of hesitation, finding them still stinging with the red drag of nails.

Grain produced a potion and gauze from his inventory, pouring the thick blue liquid onto the cotton before dabbing it across the irritated skin. A cool numbness spread over the area, and Scar relaxed at the alleviation of his symptoms. People often overlooked Mundane potions due to them having no official use, but anyone suffering from a mild ailment could tell stories of just how practical its effects could be. From soothing scrapes or minor burns, all the way to settling stomach aches or migraines, they could work little wonders. A Mundane potion for mundane problems.

"Better?" Grain asked.

"Much… thank you. Sorry for making you fly all the way over here."

"No, no, don't apologize, it's no big deal," he assured, motioning to brush off his concerns. "I needed to get out of that cave anyway. Not to bash on Zed's decorating skills, because the gadgetry is amazing, but the rest is all nonsense and greys and belch-- it was making my head spin."

Scar nodded, but couldn't help the guilt that crept into his chest, eyes darting to the side as if in anticipation for the hostility he sensibly knew would never come.

Grain smiled tenderly and placed a hand on his friend's shoulder, "I mean it, it's no trouble. Besides, you'd do the same for me. Geez, man, you have!"

"I guess you're right," Scar agreed, turning once more to face the winged man. It wouldn't be the first time either Hermit had coaxed the other down from a panic, for not only had Grain been there for him in the past, but vice versa as well.

Most recently, he could recall, someone had led a bundle of animals into the blond's mansion as a prank. Such a feat was usually harmless fun, as was the case with the challenges they'd created wherein a herd of chickens were set loose in the same manner. The problem, however, arose when the trickster wanted to break the chain of stunts involving birds, and instead released a colony of rabbits into the manor's grounds. It was intended to be innocuous, but to say it hadn't ended well would be making a molehill out of a mountain.

Mumbo and the baffled prankster themselves had immediately volunteered to clear the animals from the house, whereas Scar stayed with Grain at the man's starter base until the mansion was deemed clear, and he was able to find resolve. It had been a long day for them all, but Grain especially. He'd mostly adapted to seeing hares in the wilderness, but finding himself in an enclosed space with dozens of the creatures sent him spiraling. Scar had been told tales of a man named Sam; a heinous individual with ears of a rabbit, who despite the innocent appearance, caused Grain immense suffering.

He's from a chapter in my story that I'd much rather leave behind, Grian once said, I have a far better future to write now, anyway.

That last line always stuck with Scar, no matter how much time passed after he heard it. There were brighter eras ahead, they just had to move forward and stick around to see them. In the end, he of all people could respect wishing to leave one's past as just that. The past. Even so, he'd probably still deck that Sam character given the chance.

"Of course I am," said Grain abruptly, and Scar blinked back to the present after an internal game of catch-up to remember what they'd been speaking of to begin with.

Nodding and smiling faintly, he asked, "So, what are you doing for the rest of your free time?"

The Brit grinned in turn and ruffled his wings, "Well, my schedule is actually rather jam-packed. I'm spending the rest of the day with a friend who's in quite the pickle."

Scar raised his eyebrows, pointing towards himself, "Is it me? Am I in the pickle?"

Grian laughed, "Yes, my briney bro, you are. And I'm determined to stay by your side until you're feeling better again."

Thankful, Scar smiled as well, knowing it would do no good to feel remorseful for taking up his companion's time, or to try and convince him he would be fine on his own.

"Thank you, Grain," he said truthfully.

"Anytime," he replied, "Now let's find something nice calm to do."

"Now those are words I never thought I'd hear you say."

The two chuckled and made their way off, ready to waste the rest of the afternoon in a mellow rhythm to starve off any further panic. Scar knew he'd likely feel off for a while, not fully himself again until at least the following day. The lingering tension of his episodes always latched to his nerves and left him on edge, but he knew the company of an understanding friend would lessen the blow. They'd spend the coming hours in a tense yet manageable tandem, and to some degree, Scar could accept that.

He was still learning to trust the fact he was safe, no matter how much he already wished to embrace his freedom with open arms. Eventually, one day, maybe, he could believe it entirely, or at least to more ample extent. Until then, it was gradual steps forward on the road to recovery.

Grain skipped beside him, cracking light-hearted jokes laced with reassuring phrases, all made to help lift Scar's aching mood.

Wherever it was that road led, however, at least he wasn't walking it alone.

[END]

Comments are always greatly appreciated! More than you could imagine, in fact! 💚

#hermitcraft #hermitcraft fanfic #goodtimeswithscar #grian #mumbo jumbo #mcyt #the vex #cubfan135

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yourdeepestfathoms · 4 years

Text

Romeo and Cinderella

i can’t believe i’ve never written about Joan’s affair with Henry before-- time to change that!

Word count: 4918

TW: Past statutory rape

------------------

The physical pain Joan’s body wielded could not compare to her mental pain. In retaliation to her attempt to silence the voices that had been whispering in her ears all night long, they began toiling over in her skull, laying a permanent fog over her thought process and making so many simple things--

Joan lurched over on the spot as she nearly tumbled straight down the staircase.

--like walking, for example, a dangerous act in and of itself.

She was so tired, physically and emotionally. It’s not like sleep ever came easy for her due to her frequent insomnia, but all these thoughts inside of her head just made it ten times worse. Everything seemed to be yelling loud enough for the damned to hear. Joan’s misty mind was filled to the brim with it, and the girl could swear she heard it echoing off the theater walls around her. A long, bloodcurdling scream that never ended.

All because of something she did out of desperation.

None of the others knew why she was acting like this. For all they knew, she was just being dreary from her lack of caffeine. Yes, that was it. Lucky little trauma-free, doesn’t-know-what-it’s-like-to-suffer Joan just didn’t have enough coffee in her system. What else could be going on? She didn’t have anything bad happen to her. Hell, she couldn’t even remember most of her memories, which was said to be a blessing by several of the queens, while they were all cursed. She should be thankful.

But she wasn’t.

Because she did remember the worst parts of her life. And, at first, she thought it was the horrific deaths of her queens, but then something else surfaced from her mind and she hasn’t stopped feeling ill ever since.

She was not a good person.

Joan staggered up the last step on the Stairs of Doom, but tried to make her momentary loss of balance look as natural as possible. She leaned against the wall for a moment, letting her eyes flutter shut. For once, reaching hands and grotesque naked bodies did not flash behind her eyelids. She panted like a tired dog and went to walk to her dressing room, but could not find the energy to move. The world was starting to blur together, sound and feeling becoming one.

Would it hurt to rest for just a minute? Just for a minute…

“Joan?”

That sound, a sound so beautifully sharp.

“Are you alright, Joan?”

A commanding tone, a beautifully sharp commanding tone.

A new feeling formed on the top of her head, one that gave the girl an ungodly burst of strength. In a split second she was upright, still trembling despite the warm temperature in the theater, and looked up at Aragon with what could only be known as relief.

“I assure you the chairs and couch are much more comfortable than the wall.” The Spanish queen said. She peered at Joan closely. “Are you okay?”

Joan said nothing in response; she didn’t even react to the woman’s presence. Her eyes were glassy, making her almost look blind.

Aragon sensed something was wrong. She bent down to Joan’s height, angling her chin to look up at her.

“Look at me, dear.”

Thoughts were trying to push their way through the fog. Thoughts that, if Aragon were able to read minds, she would certainly have smacked Joan for them.

Although it would not be unwelcome…

“Joan!”

Joan snapped her attention back to the Spanish queen, using her wobbly legs to make a small distance between them. The thoughts were still whirling in her mind.

Aragon is frowning in worry and confusion. She set a hand on the girl’s shoulder.

“What has happened to you? You are usually more attentive than this…”

A simple thought was fighting its way through the fog.

Gut

Oh how Joan wished Aragon would just GUT her, if only so that these disgusting memories could repeat no longer.

“Why don’t you lay down?” Aragon suggested, guiding Joan into her own dressing room and over to the sofa, making sure not to accidentally tug on her obviously fragile body. Luckily, she’s able to get the young lady in waiting to lie down and rest until the others get back, but the peaceful reverie doesn’t last long.

Joan flinched hard and her eyes shot open. Everything was dark. She couldn’t remember where she was and she couldn’t see anything at all to even begin to piece it together. Two hands were on her shoulders, pinning her down and her heart leapt into her mouth. Where was she? Who was on her? What were they going to do to her?

Joan grabbed the wrists holding her down and twisted them sharply.

There was a cry above her and Joan used the brief lack of pressure on her shoulders to shove the hands away and push herself up. She didn’t know where the person was; her eyes hadn’t adapted to the darkness enough--it was so dark. why was it dark? wasn’t it morning? is she in their house? is she trapped? she’s so scared--to make them out, but they had made the mistake of sitting beside her and not on her to keep her pinned down, and Joan took her chance to escape. She dove left, hopefully out of reach of anyone in the room but she didn’t know where she was going and very quickly found herself on the cold, hard ground. She spasmed and strong hands pulled her up.

“Joan? Joan, darling, it’s okay.”

For a moment, Joan faltered. She had been expecting a man’s voice. This wasn’t that. She didn’t know what to do with this.

Joan blinked hard in the darkness, trying to force her eyes to adjust to it. Her heart was thumping in her chest and her whole body was tense, ready to make another blind run for it if she got a chance. Her ears strained for any sound of movement; any footsteps or a rustle of clothing that would tell her someone was trying to get closer. Hell, she didn’t even know how many people were in this room or how many could see her. She couldn’t hear anything over her own uneven breaths and the blood roaring in her ears.

“Joan, can you hear me?” The voice asked gently. “It’s me. It’s Catalina. You’re safe here, we’re at the theater. I’m sorry if I startled you. You looked so tired so I shut the lights off and closed the curtains to let you rest.”

Joan felt shivers cascade down her arms and over her thighs. No, it couldn’t be. She was taken.

“Joan, you’re safe here. It’s Catalina. We’re in my dressing room, remember? I brought you in here five minutes ago. You’re safe, darling, nobody’s coming for you. I’m going to turn on one of the lights now so you can see for yourself, okay?”

Joan winced as a lamp flickered to life and lit up the room. She expected to open her eyes to a king standing above her with a lust-filled smirk. Instead what she saw was a regular dressing room with makeup tables and vanities and chairs. And, there right beside her, was Catherine of Aragon, eyes warm and watching Joan with a soft smile, hands held low and in front of her, palms down, like she was trying to soothe a cornered animal. Everything about this was wrong.

“Catalina?” Joan croaked, surprised at how raspy her voice sounded. She hadn’t noticed how dry her throat was until her voice caught in the back of it and the name barely left her lips.

Still, Aragon’s smile widened but her eyes were still sad and Joan’s heart seized.

“It’s me, Joan. I’m here.”

“He’s here,” Was Joan’s immediate response. Something about this was wrong.

“No, sweetie,” Aragon’s voice was soft and calm and Joan’s heart was making a cacophony in her chest, harmonizing with her ragged breathing and her blood rushing through her veins and the hundred of awful thoughts shrieking inside of her head. “Nobody is here to hurt you. You’re safe.”

“No, I’m- I’m- I’m-″ Joan didn’t know how she meant to finish that sentence.

“Joan, honey, where do you think you are?” Aragon’s voice was still so gentle, so careful. Tiny movements, soft and delicate, like she was handling spun glass.

“Castle.” Joan was certain of it.

“You’re not in the castle anymore, Joan. You aren’t. You‘re free. You’re in London, at the theater we both work at with the other queens and Ladies.”

Joan looked back at Aragon. The woman hadn’t moved from her spot and her hands were still held out in front of her, low and palms towards the floor.

“Can you try again?” Aragon asked, keeping her eyes trained on Joan as she fought through the whirlwind of thoughts battering around inside her skull. “Where do you think we are?”

Joan looked around the room again and tightened her hands into fists at her sides. Her fingernails dug into her palms, leaving a trail of red crescents etched into her skin. She shivered, soaked in cold sweat, although it felt more like hot, sticky--

“I’m not…I’m not in the castle?” Joan tried but it was still a question. It wasn’t something tangible and real that she could cling onto and the words sat funny in the back of her throat and she felt like she needed to swallow them down again.

“You’re not in the castle, that’s right.”

“I’m not in the castle,” Joan repeated and it felt better this time. More solid. More like it could be true.

“You’re in London, at the theater, in my dressing room.” Aragon told her again.

“Dressing room,” Joan echoed softly.

“It’s okay, Joan. You’re safe. You’re in London and no one is going to hurt you anymore,” Aragon continued gently. “You’re having a panic attack, sweetie.”

No wonder why Joan couldn’t breathe. Her chest was tight and her ears were ringing and she felt like there was a target painted onto her back. She pressed her palms flat against the wall behind her, feeling just a touch safer knowing that no one could sneak up behind her when she was like this.

“Can you try breathing with me? Nice and slow, in through your nose and then out through your mouth.”

Joan forced her eyes to stay on Aragon as she shuffled slowly towards her, closing the gap between them. She held out a hand to Joan, but she couldn’t move to take it. Instead, she nodded stiffly to let Aragon know she had heard her and clenched her hands against the plaster. Her knuckles were stiff as she spread her weight from her palms onto her fingers, and Joan pressed more of her weight backwards until a dull pain blossomed in the joints. It gave her something she could trust to focus on. The pain was real, even if the rest was questionable.

She took a shaky breath in with Aragon and tried to hold it but her lungs were too shallow to match what Aragon was doing. Her chest burned as she tried to hold the air in place and Joan choked on the breath and gasped, forcing more air into her already full lungs. It felt like drowning, and Joan made a pained whimper as flashes of black spots clouded her vision. She was helpless, lost in the force of the ocean waves. She couldn’t tell which way was up or down or where the shore was and then suddenly, someone had laced their fingers around hers and Joan squeezed tightly onto her lifeline.

“-hear me? Joan? It’s okay, I promise it’s okay, nothing’s happening, you’re not in danger. You’re safe here. Can you even hear me? What do I do if you can’t hear me? Joan, I’m right here, it’s Catalina, I’m here and I’ve got you, okay? I’m not leaving you.”

“Catalina?” Joan rasped, and she felt the fingers intertwined with hers give a tiny reassuring squeeze.

“Yes, that’s right. It’s me, I’m still here. It’s just you and me, darling, nobody else. Can you open your eyes for me? Please?” Aragon’s voice was much closer to her ear now and slightly more frantic than it had been a minute ago. Joan could hear it tinged into her assurances.

She hadn’t even realized her eyes were closed until Aragon asked her to open them again. She blinked them open slowly, squinting in the light. She was still hunched against the wall but Aragon was next to her now, holding her hand. Joan was looking down at her own chest which was heaving with her efforts to breathe.

Aragon smiled at her effort and reached her other hand up to brush some of the strands back from Joan’s sweaty forehead. Joan closed her eyes and exhaled quietly, leaning into the gentle touch as Aragon fingertips dragged across her temple and sent shivers down her arms.

“Shh, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Aragon soothed her, brushing her fingers through Joan’s hair and over the shell of her ear. Joan fell silent, listening to Aragon’s breathing and tried to match her own to it. It was easier standing together like this, when Joan could know Aragon was really there.

And then, the door swung open.

“WE GOT DONUTS!!”

Joan dug her fingernails deep into Aragon’s knuckles when Kitty suddenly yelled while making her entrance. When the other queens noticed what was happening, Cleves lunged forward to cover her friend’s mouth before she could start babbling again. Aragon doesn’t even acknowledge their existence; she was too focused on calming the poor girl before her.

“Joan,” She called out softly.

Joan’s wide eyes were staring at the other queens in terror. She only looked away because Aragon gently redirects her chin to meet her gaze.

“Focus on me, honey. You were doing so well. Keep breathing.” Aragon says.

Joan tried, but her eyes kept wandering. She saw the faces of the queens and ladies in waiting through a blizzard of white and black--Aragon. Jane. Anne. Cleves. Parr. Maria. Maggie. Bessie. Aragon. Jane. Anne. Cleves. Parr. Aragon. Jane. Anne. Cleves. Parr. Maria. Maggie. Bessie. Henry--

Henry?

A sharp pain lanced in between Joan’s rib bones and her spine arched a little. White light blazed across her vision and she gasped, clutching desperately onto Aragon’s sleeves like she was a drowning woman in the middle of the ocean. All the while she’s sputtering out apologies, which makes the patient queen frown.

“Don’t apologize, darling,” Aragon said, gently brushing her fingers over the girl’s tear-stained cheeks. “You aren’t doing anything wrong.”

Her hand moves to rest on the side of Joan’s torso, just below her breasts, which she makes sure not to touch (it’s out of common decency, but little does she know that the slightest brush of contact would send the poor girl spiraling).

“Breathe in. Ready?”

Joan tried to follow, but it’s incredibly difficult because of the pain, which she realized must be from oxygen starvation. She wasn’t getting enough air and her body was punishing her for it. She winced when her chest contracted and she nearly doubled over.

“Hurts...!”

Aragon lifted the pianist’s chin so they’re making eye contact and she frowned at how glazed over the ice blue eyes were. She moved her other hand to support the back of Joan’s skull, ready to catch or even cradle her if needed.

“I know, honey, I know,” She murmured sadly, “Can you try again? Breathe in,” A hopeful smile cracks on her lips when she hears Joan take in a ragged breath, “That’s very good, darling.”

The praise seemed to help because, slowly but surely, Joan was starting to breathe normally. She ended up curled up in Aragon’s arms, who held her gently, but protectively like a mother bird guarding her chicks.

Eventually, Joan was completely calm, but she’s clearly very exhausted. It’s been three days without proper sleep, and it’s really taking a toll on her. And, even though she’s scared of what her dreams may have in store for her, she closed her eyes and drifted off into an abyss of guilty horrors.

------

“They’re never going to forgive you, you know. Not after they hear the full story.”

“...”

“You were seventeen.”

“...”

“So tight…”

“...”

“You liked it. I know you did. Nobody else was ever that noisy and aroused when I got with them.”

“...”

“You did it for money, you needy little slut.”

“...”

“You’re a whore. An actual whore. Not any of my wives, not even Bessie. You. You are a dirty whore.”

“...I know.”

------

Joan had no idea how much time passed when she woke up, but she felt even more lethargic than before when she hauled herself off of the dressing room couch. When she staggered out into the hallway, she found that the entire theater seemed to be eerily silent. And empty.

Aside from the massive figure at the end of the hallway.

Joan screamed--she couldn’t help it. She ran, but He was there when she turned around to flee. His hands were as big and rough as she remembered. She clawed at them when they groped and pinched her, scratching like there were fire ants crawling all over her body.

“Get off of me!!” She screeched.

“Joan?”

Suddenly, Cathy was there in front of her.

“Woah, Joan. Hey, breathe. You’re having a panic attack.”

“No….no!” Joan cried, finally finding her voice. She thrashed her head around violently. “Henry! Henry is here!!”

Cathy’s concern probably increased by ten when she heard that. She frowned and gently felt Joan’s forehead.

“You’re a little warm… Here, sit down and following my breath--”

Joan went to scream again when she, too, stopped herself. There was blood on one of her hands. Too much blood. Sure, she had been trying to stop Henry from getting into her, but there shouldn’t be this much.

“Oh, Joan…”

“He hurt me,” Joan whimpered. Her knees buckled and she collapsed into Cathy's arms. “Hurts…!”

Cathy knelt to the floor slowly, then began to inspect Joan’s arms and stomach, which were marred with angry red scratches. Joan whimpered in distress and pawed for one of Cathy’s arms so she could hold onto her, but Cathy kept her leaned back away from her during the examination.

“Cathy-- Hold me--” Joan sobbed.

Cathy hesitated and Joan whimpered, thinking she was going to be denied, but then she’s being tucked against the queen’s chest. She instantly nuzzled into Cathy’s warmth, clinging onto her for dear life.

“Breathe, Joan. Breathe. Follow me.” Cathy lifted Joan’s head so it was properly resting on her chest and she could feel the rise and fall from her own breaths.

Cathy was unsure how she was going to stop the bleeding and get Joan to breathe normally when Cleves suddenly shouted down the hallway. She called her over urgently.

“Anna! Joan’s hurt!”

Even Cleves looked a little pale when she saw the scratches. She didn’t stick around long, running off to get some supplies and the other queens.

“Hallway,” She had said to Aragon and Jane, who were idly conversing (though more to Aragon), “Go the hallway outside the dressing rooms. Joan’s bleeding.”

That was enough to send Aragon to the location as quickly as possible, Jane on her tail. Anne and Kitty caught sight of them and followed.

“Oh my god,” Aragon muttered, gently taking Joan from Cathy. “Joan, baby, what did you do?” She looked at Cathy, “What happened?”

“I don’t know.” Cathy admitted. “I found her scratching herself.”

“No,” Joan shook her head, “It was Henry. Henry hurt me. Please--please find him. He’s here.”

The queens exchanged very worried looks. Kitty tottered back into Jane’s arms, suddenly looking very frightened. Cleves came barreling back down the hallway with a stagehand in tow and supplies in hand.

“Honey, Henry is dead.” Aragon said gently, making Cleves perk up a little in interest, since she hadn’t been there for Joan’s outburst.

“He--he was reincarnated. Like us. That’s why I was scratching myself! Here’s here!” Joan’s voice became weaker as she choked on the tears and pain, “He-he was touching me. Here’s going to get us.”

“That makes more sense,” Anne said, then actually scoffed, “But why would he want you?”

“Why would you say something like that?” Kitty added, a slight growl in her voice.

“N-no, I--”

“Joan, honey, there’s no one here. Henry is dead.” Aragon told her, but she just shook her head.

“He is here.” It came out weaker, fainter as lack of oxygen intake started to have an effect on her.

Gentle hands cupped her cheeks and she looked up at Aragon, who had a worried, but fiercely protective look on her face.

“Eyes on me, darling,” Aragon said, “Follow my breathing. Like we’ve been practicing. In,” She took an exaggerated breath, “And out.” She exhaled.

Joan followed for a moment before her eyes darted behind Aragon, like she thought someone may be standing there. She looked back when fingers brushed her cheeks.

“Ah, ah, eyes on me.” Aragon chided gently, stroking some of the young pianist’s hair back. “Can you take another breath for me?”

Joan went to at least try, but instead she yelped sharply when something wet pressed against her right arm. She swung her hand around and nailed the stagehand in the jaw, causing him to reel backwards.

Usually, she would be apologizing immediately, but this was a guy touching her. Terrified fury blazes in her glassy eyes.

“Don’t touch me!” She snarled.

“Joan, sweetie, calm down. Nobody is going to hurt you.” Aragon murmured and the anger snuffed out almost instantly upon hearing the velvety voice.

With the anger, goes the numbness and Joan’s skin burned intensely in pain. She whimpered and pressed her face against Aragon’s shoulder. For a moment, she thought she heard Anne and Kitty scoff.

Aragon began to wipe the scratches adorning her body, and the rag felt like it had dozens of tiny teeth sewn onto it, grinding deep into Joan’s flesh when the blood was cleaned off. At least it was better than the antiseptic, which had made the pianist hiss in pain from the sharp sting that flared through her skin.

By then, she was easing into that dissociative state that usually came after panic attacks. Everything was numb and felt so lucid, but her chest continued to burn with the pain of holding back tears and her much-needed anxiety attack after that traumatic experience. She desperately wanted to cry, to let out all the emotions that came from Henry surely attacking her, but no one would believe her. It would be silly to bother other queens with something that they didn’t even think really happened.

“Are you okay?” Aragon asked softly, but Joan still jumped.

“I…I think I am now.” Joan mumbled, “I’m really sorry. I don’t know what came over me..”

It was Henry. He came over her--literally.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” Aragon tucked a loose strand of hair behind the girl’s ear, “Just come find me if you’re having that bad of a flare up, alright? You shouldn’t hurt yourself.”

“I-I didn’t mean to!” Joan yelped, her ears burning red. “I just…panicked…”

“Remember that we’re always here for you, love.” Aragon kissed the top of the girl’s head.

Joan nodded and was helped to her feet by Aragon. Everything spun around a few times before clearing up, but she still had to grasp onto the queen’s shoulder for balance.

“I don’t think you should go on,” Aragon decided.

“I can still perform!” Joan replied quickly, “I’m fine, really. Just give me a moment…or two…”

She wobbled and Aragon quickly grabbed her, grounding her. At this point, it’s not even the pain that’s making Joan feel like there’s cotton in her head, it’s the sight of Henry’s, whose face keeps flickering behind her eyelids.

“Joan, I really don’t think--”

“Please? I swear I’m fine. Besides, my dep isn’t here to take my place.” Joan said.

Aragon gave in, despite her nagging maternal worry for the young girl.

“Okay, can we now discuss what the fuck Joan said?” Anne said loudly. “What’s up with that? Bringing up our abusive husband. Are you trying to make US have panic attacks, too?”

“What? N-no!” Joan stammered. “I’m sorry, I-I don’t know what came over me… I shouldn’t have said that…”

“Yeah, she shouldn’t have,” Anne growled, “But you still did. Asshole.”

“Watch your tongue.” Aragon warned lowly.

“Cut her some slack, Anne,” Cathy said. “She was freaking out.”

“She’s always freaking out!” Anne cried. “Seriously! And for over what? Some MD work?” She glared at Joan. “She doesn’t know what it’s like to suffer under Henry.”

But Joan did.

------

Joan was soaked in sweat by the end of the performance and her costume felt like it was glued to her clammy skin. It was strange, really. She didn’t even dance or sing or move around like the queens, she certainly shouldn't be out of energy, and yet here she was, damp, wet, and feeling leaky all over. The minute bows ended, she was off of that stage and making a beeline for the dressing room.

Joan struggled with her sweat-saturated costume for a few agonizingly long seconds. She wanted to change before Aragon came to check on her, seeing the queen made the guilt unbearable, but her process was halted when she felt a hand press against her back.

The intense fear came rushing back. It’s Henry’s hand. He’s here and he’s going to defile her again. He’s going to make her feel like an even worse person by making her enjoy it like last time. An unbidden whimper escapes the girl’s lips.

“Joan?”

Whose voice was that? It didn’t sound like a man.

“Joan.”

It was so soothing.

“Joan, honey, it’s Jane.”

Jane? That seemed less believable than Henry being there…

Joan snapped out of her daze, and that sent her reeling from a headrush. She probably would have collapsed if it weren’t for Jane looping an arm around her back and holding her upright. She pushed against the queen a little, but ultimately gave up.

Jane frowned deeply down at Joan and brushed some hair out of Joan’s face. Her eyes widened when she cupped one of Joan’s cheeks.

“Oh dear. Sweetheart, you’re burning up.”

Joan blearily stared up at her for a moment, barely reacting. Then, she moved her head so it would rest on Jane’s soft chest. Shivers start to rack through her achy body, despite still feeling hot and sweaty.

“You need to get home. Come on, let me help you out of that costume.”

Joan really didn’t want Jane to see her in her undergarments, she still didn’t even know why Jane was doing then when she was sure the queen hated her, but there wasn’t much she could do to resist. So she had no other choice but to let the woman undress her. She couldn’t stop herself from trembling, though.

“Shh, shh,” Jane soothed when she heard the poor girl whimper again, “Deep breaths, honey. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m almost done.”

Jane couldn’t help but examine Joan once she got the damp costume off. Not in a sexual, needy way at all, but more in the way of a worried mother checking her child for injuries.

Strange. She wondered what these scratches down her back were from.

“C-can you turn around? Please?” Joan asked so softly Jane almost missed it.

“Of course, love.”

Jane did as she was asked, giving the frightened girl some privacy to pull her regular clothes back on. She would have left the room completely if it wasn’t for the nagging feeling that she shouldn’t leave Joan alone.

The doorknob suddenly wiggled, and Jane didn’t react fast enough to stop some of the others from bursting inside. Anne was chiming loudly, which just about caused Joan to jump out of her skin.

“Hsst!” Jane hissed, glaring at them and then nodding towards Joan, who was trembling even harder now.

“Oh, woah! Shut your eyes, you guys! Don’t look at little Joey while she’s naked!” Anne yelled, smirking devilishly, which didn’t make the situation any better. By that point, though, Joan was gone.

“Will you shut it?” Jane snapped, “You’re so loud. I’m sure the people left out in the auditorium can still hear you.”

“I was just saying.” Anne fired back.

“We weren’t going to gawk at her.” Cathy spoke up.

“I definitely wouldn’t.” Kitty agreed. “Like there’s anything good to look at.” She and Anne giggled.

“Joan?”

Jane was turned away from the queens and now knelt down in front of Joan, who had managed to wrestle on her clothing (although her shirt was definitely inside out). The girl’s eyes were glazed over and she doesn’t even seem to acknowledge anyone anymore. She was lost in a trance of terror.

“Joan?” Jane tried again, this time louder.

Nothing. Joan continued to just tremble and heave her breaths. Jane picked up one of her hands and placed it against her chest, something she usually only did for Kitty. Kitty noticed this and sneered in envy.

“Joan, can you feel that? That’s my heartbeat. Try to use it to ground yourself, honey.” Jane murmured, rubbing her thumbs over the girl’s knuckles. “You are here. You’re safe, I promise.”

But she wasn’t.

“Joan?”

Joan wheezed, and then her eyes fluttered shut.

“Joan!”

The young pianist fell unconscious into Jane’s arms.

#six the musical #six the musical fanfic #six the musical fanfiction #six fanfiction #six fanfic #joan on the keys #catherine of aragon #anne boleyn #jane seymour #katherine howard #anna of cleves #catherine parr #king henry viii #henry the eighth #romeo and cinderella #tw: statutory rape

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greensaplinggrace · 4 years

Note

Hey! If you're still taking prompts for FF7R, I was wondering if you could write something where Cloud gets hurt when he jumps off the train with Tifa. But it's a Secret Injury that he keeps to himself, because they've got a job to do and he doesn't want to appear weak. It becomes a problem at a really inconvenient moment and Tifa and Barret have to take care of him.

Hey! Sorry it took so long to fill this prompt XD. This is kind of the shorter, slightly different version of a longer fic I’m thinking of working on centering around this premise, but I hope you like it anyways! Thanks so much for the prompt :)

*TW for self esteem issues, self hatred, head trauma, and injury

- If you want to send in a prompt, the guidelines are HERE and HERE!

The walls echo with the sound of Barret’s distant fight as Cloud follows Tifa down the railways, and every step brings with it a jarring, agonizing pain. He’d known as soon as he hit the ground that something had broken on impact. Tifa’s weight and the momentum of the train had only exacerbated the issue of colliding shoulder first with the stone cold ground - bouncing off of the concrete and rolling end over end on battered ribs.

He doesn’t regret it, of course. Landing with Tifa had been the only option. Helping her - protecting her - had been worth the injury. Yet now his ribs ache and his chest stutters and his shoulder feels like it’s on fire. Breathing hurts almost as much as moving his arm does, and walking makes something shift in his side that has him desperately wishing he could break composure even for a second to shudder through the pain.

They’re on a mission, though. Already one woman down and waiting on a deadline. Tifa trusts him to do this and Barret would be more than angry at the inconvenience. Cloud isn’t weak, either. He’s a SOLDIER and a damn good one. No small, insignificant injury should be able to stop him from doing his job. Any fighter worth their salt should be able to power through something like this. Tifa probably could and Cloud knows Barret could, and Cloud’s not going to be the one holding the party back when anybody else would just keep going.

So he ignores the pain, grits his teeth through the worst of it and runs down the railways behind Tifa like he means it. Every step makes his stomach turn as he fights back the crawl of bile up his throat, and when Tifa turns to him from the gate between her and Barret. Worried and rushed and saying “we’d better hurry.” All he can do is let out a breathless, pained “yeah,” and power through in the hopes that she won’t notice.

Dashing up the stairs is dizzying. Worryingly so, if Cloud were to truly focus on the extent of his injuries, but he doesn’t. Instead, he pushes it all from his mind, blank and soundless in a void of calming white as the world rushes by around him. Crossing over to Barret and pulling his sword from his back when even so much as lifting his arm makes his chest flare and his shoulder burn.

But he doesn’t think about it. Doesn’t think about anything as he fights, movements that much more reserved, and it’s only by the sheer skin of his teeth that he doesn’t end up getting torn to shreds right then and there when he falters on an offensive strike and overreaches. Saved by Tifa’s furious blows and a ring of gunfire from Barret. They’re both still focused on their own battles, intent and unaware of his current state, and he’s more than grateful that they didn’t see his fuck up - that they didn’t witness his pathetic show of weakness like he’s some sideshow attraction and not a fucking SOLDIER.

Shame wells in him when the battle ends. A confusing mixture of wishing he’d told them and being grateful he hadn’t. At risking their lives by allowing them to rely on him when he’s so weak and at being so damn weak in the first place. For letting it get to him and for even being hurt at all when he’s not supposed to be.

He’s supposed to be better than this.

Cloud’s fingers twitch with the need to wrap around his shoulder and hold it steady, but he swallows the urge and puts away his sword, blinking away tears as he walks over to Barret and Tifa. They’re standing together, happy and pleased as Barret sings a victory song, and Cloud is overwhelmed with another surge of burning self hatred as he realizes that he’d been the one to almost take that away from them.

He clenches his jaw and pulls inward, arms crossed and muscles shaking from the tension as he listens to Barret and Tifa explain their plans. He tries to act natural through the haze of pain, but standing still doesn’t settle it down nearly as much as he’d hoped it would, and when they start moving again he can barely remember where the hell they are, let alone anything Barret had said in the past few minutes.

Fool. He’s a fucking fool. He’s going to get them all killed because he can’t keep his head through a few bruised bones. Telling them about the injury would help them, but if he speaks now then they’re definitely going to know what a failure he is. That he’d tried to be strong and he still couldn’t do it. That he’s as worthless and as selfish and incompetent as Barret had thought he was the very first time they met. That he isn’t even worth the time of day.

Cloud thins his lips against a whimper when they come to a halt in front of a set of stairs, trying to hide the shaking in his arm as Tifa and Barret go up ahead of him. Gathering the courage to follow after them is a quick endeavor, because he can’t let them know and because if he waits too long then he won’t ever end up doing it, but every step up has him biting his tongue to stop from screaming.

When he reaches the top alongside Tifa and Barret and sees another set of robots waiting to hold them off, the nausea that pools in his gut feels a lot like dread.

“Well, come on! These bots ain’t gonna fight themselves.”

“Y-yeah.”

“Little set of stairs got you winded, SOLDIER boy? Maybe we should have brought Jessie along. after all.”

The sting of the words has nothing on the pain he’s feeling right now, but for some reason they hurt so much more. His heart drops, throat tightening, and Tifa’s sigh isn’t enough of a defense when Cloud knows Barret’s right - knows he’d been a poor substitute when a simple fall has him out for the count.

He doesn’t say anything in response, raising his hand with forced speed to grab the hilt of his sword. Lifting it has his entire torso protesting, but he steadies the shake of his hand and brings his other around to help prop it up, charging in right alongside Tifa and Barret. Just as he had the last battle and the battle before that. Just as he should be doing for every battle afterward.

Cutting through the first bot is no trouble. Lighting arcs through the air and fire explodes around it, and within seconds he’s turning to another and swinging his blade in a wide arc. Only this time his arm explodes, acid burning him from his shoulder to his fingertips as he cries out in pain, buster sword clattering to the floor. He staggers, clutching his arm to his throbbing chest and curling inward as he tries to push through it. He just needs to-

“Cloud!”

“The hell is going on, merc?!”

“It’s fine,” he forces out, diving for his sword as a deadly flash of steel cuts through the air where his head had once been, “I just-” He’s cut off with a gasp when he tries to lift his sword again, choking back another cry as he’s forced to abandon it, dodging beneath another blow. Scrambling to put some distance between himself and the bot attacking him, he looks around wildly for the others, relieved to see that they’re both safe and holding their own.

Then there’s a glint and a hiss as a bot’s blade snaps down for a killing blow and his arm gives out completely as he falls to the floor. His heart hits the back of his throat in fear, and when Tifa’s hair whips in front of his eyes, gauntlet catching against the blow to deflect it aside, the flood of relief is indescribable.

“Cloud, are you alright?” Tifa sounds worried and stressed, already fretting over whatever she thinks might have happened, and Cloud can’t even speak through the shame. Can’t do a thing as Barret shoots down the last bots in front of him and Tifa puts hers into the ground with such ferocity Cloud thinks she might’ve sent it straight into the underworld.

As soon as it’s dead she turns to him in a panic, eyes wide as she falls to her knees beside him and looks him over. He pushes himself to a sitting position on one arm and wavers as his vision spots.

“Is he okay? Shit, kid, you had my heart nearly jumping out of my chest with that stunt! Think I lost ten years of my life…”

“I’m fine-” his voice breaks unconvincingly on the word and he scowls, “really, I- I only…”

“You only got injured,” Barret huffs, “shit happens. We’ll look it over and see if we can’t heal it up.”

Tifa nods with a smile, relaxing ever so slightly when he doesn’t appear to be on death’s door. “No need to push it, Cloud.”

He blinks, not quite processing, and has to swallow against the gathering of tears in his eyes. “I’m not- It’ll hold up for the mission.”

“Mission ain’t goin’ anywhere until everybody is ready to go!” It’s Barret who says it. Barret, of all people, who Cloud knows hates him. It’s Barret who wants to hold up his own mission to take care of someone like Cloud.

“I’m already ready to go,” Cloud pushes, because he’s not fucking weak like he knows they think he is, now. Like he knows he is every second of every day that he has to live with himself and with Sephiroth- “I can take care of myself.”

“Cloud.” Tifa’s voice is gentle and soothing as she puts her hand on his knee, and he has to look away from the compassion in her eyes before he drowns in it, “we just want to help. Let us take a look?”

“It won’t fix anything.”

“It’ll fix plenty,” Barret huffs, and the next thing Cloud knows there’s a hand grabbing his good arm and hauling him up. Pulling until Cloud is gasping, nearly collapsing from the surge of pain that sears through his body as Barret moves him. “Sorry, kid. Shit, I’m so sorry.”

Cloud’s seated on a box of some kind, heaving with each strangled breath as he teeters on the edge of consciousness. Fingers prod at him, a large hand in his hair to keep him steady as someone pulls up his shirt and draws lines of agony across his skin.

“Shit, that looks bad.”

“This didn’t happen a couple of minutes ago, Barret.” Tifa’s whispering but Cloud still hears her anyway, and the tears are harder to keep at bay when he can hardly think from the pain.

“What the hell?! Have you been hiding this from us? For how long?!”

“Barret, dont-”

“I’m sorry,” Cloud finally breaks, squeezing his eyes shut as Tifa keeps prodding, “I’m sorry. I- I fucked up.”

“Damnit. Look, I didn’t mean it like that, okay? You can’t keep things like this from us, though. This could'a killed you, do you understand?”

“I’m not weak. I can still...I can still do the mission. I didn’t fail you. Please don't abandon me, I swear I didn't fail you.”

"Hey!" Cloud jumps. "Nobody's abandoning anybody. Is that really what you think of us?"

"No...no. 'm sr..." he slurs and fades, world spinning sickeningly.

“Is his head okay?”

“No, I- Shit, I think he hit it.”

There’s more prodding, this time with thick fingers running over his forehead and through his hair, carding at the strands in a way that would usually make him want to purr in satisfaction. Except this time the fingers brush against something swollen and hot and his head splits in two at the feel of it. He whines and jolts, attempting to twist away from his attacker. Yet not two seconds later there’s a small apology, fingers smoothing away the pain in a bid for forgiveness, and he submits again to the touch.

“That one’s recent. It has to be from the fall.” There’s a sigh, irritated and frustrated and lengthy enough to make guilt swarm in Cloud’s chest, another apology falling from his lips before he can stop it.

“It’s okay,” Tifa whispers, patting comfortingly at his knee. Cloud reluctantly opens his eyes, expecting to see any number of accusations or deceptions, fearful of her inevitable fury. Yet all he sees is her peering up at him with a furrowed brow, expression one of complete concern. It isn't enough, though. Because he knows he failed - he knows he fucked up - and now they know it, too.

“I’m not weak,” he repeats desperately, “I can still go on. I won’t fail again, I swear.”

“Nobody here thinks you’re weak, merc. Hell, don’t tell anybody I said this, but you might be the strongest damn person I’ve ever met.”

Affection makes Cloud dizzy for a moment, high on the feeling of caring for someone - of knowing they care back. Then Tifa speaks as well, and his heart bursts.

“You didn’t fail us, Cloud. We failed you. We should have noticed and we should have done something. I could never think you’re weak.”

“I’m not...I’m not like I promised I would be.”

“Oh, Cloud," she sighs, and it sounds like grief and understanding and something he could never name, strung together by a heart of gold. His chest pangs even with the sound of her voice. "Everyone needs help every once in a while. Would you blame me for needing it. Would you call me weak?”

“Of course not.” Cloud would never. He riles just at the thought of it, head aching with the sudden rise of emotion. Barret’s chuckle is a low rumble above him, accompanied by Tifa's hum of amusement as she rummages through her bag for something. After a time she brings out a glowing green materia, giving it a triumphant look before turning her beautiful red eyes back to Cloud.

“Then you shouldn’t do so to yourself, either. You aren’t held to a different standard here. Nobody in the group is expected to hurt themselves and punish their bodies just to get a mission done. We care about our own.”

“I'm not…”

“You are,” Barret states, firm and unrelenting, "you're one of ours and you're one of mine, and we care. All of us."

"...oh." It's small and pitiful, but Barret doesn't seem to take it for a sign of weakness, either. Instead, he turns joking as he ruffles his hand through Cloud's hair.

“Uh-huh. So I think you owe Wedge an apology or twelve.”

“And you owe him several as well, Barret, now hush and let me work.”

Cloud fades after that, lulled by the gentle cradle of Barret’s hand on his head and the wash of energy through his veins, light and healing as it wipes the pain away. Until his eyelids are heavy and his limbs limp, exhaustion tugging at his bones until he's falling into a warmth, wrapped in a tender embrace. There's breath across his cheek when he rests his head against a steady shoulder, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into his hands as Tifa speaks.

“Sleep, Cloud."

"What about..."

"Sh..." She presses a kiss to his forehead, soft and loving. "Sleep. Trust us. Don't worry about a thing."

#cloud strife #tifa lockhart #barret wallace #whump #hurt comfort #promptfills #ffvii #ff7 #remake #cloud strife needs a hug #cloud strife whump #hidden injury #that Train Scene #lmao #cloti #but only if you squint #tbh i was squinting when i wrote this so...#ngl i wrote this on two hours of sleep #it isnt my best

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98prilla · 4 years

Text

Abductions, Past and Present

AO3

...

Remus’s breath catches and he’s backing up, backed into a wall, backed into a corner. He can feel his breath getting caught in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs, and it’s dark, too dark, and suddenly he’s back, back in the cell, back in the black, except it’s smaller, it’s so much smaller, iron bands wrapped around his arms and legs, climbing up him until he can’t even wiggle his fingers, until they cover his mouth, then his nose, and he can’t breathe, he’s suffocating, they’re suffocating him, and he wants to scream, but he can’t, he can’t, and he can hear Him, whispering, taunting, just like he always does, it echoes in his ears along with his silent scream until they’re ringing and there’s still no air-

Contact. He flinches, lets out a garbled shout that comes out as more of a strained whimper. The touch quickly moves to withdraw, but instinctively his hand shoots out, latching onto the contact like it’s the only thing left in reality, and he’s drowning, drowning in his own mind, his own thoughts, his own memories

“remus.” His name finally makes it through the ringing in his ears and his head shoots up, wild eyes locking onto whoever’s face, Logan’s face, and he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, because it’s not Him, it’s not Him, it’s not Him! “can you nod, if you can hear me?” Logan’s voice is soft, softer than he’s heard it before, and there’s emotion in it too, instead of the clinical cold tone that sets his teeth grating. Slowly, with effort, he manages a nod. “that’s good. You need to breathe, ok? Can you breathe in, 1,2,3,4” Logan counts, and he screws up on that, the very first part, and his heart rate rockets up a notch, because now comes the punishment, now comes the pain, now comes the hurt, as a result of his failure, of his stupidity, he can’t do this, he can’t do anything-

“it’s ok, Remus. It is perfectly fine. Let’s try again, ok? Just do whatever you can. No one is going to hurt you. You’re doing fine.” Logan, again, soft and… and worried? He doesn’t know, but he doesn’t sound angry, as he starts counting again, and Remus tries, in fits and starts and gasps, he tries, until finally, he can breathe again, and he collapses into a ball on the floor, gasping sobs flooding out of him in bitter waves as his head clears from the thoughts, from the memories, from the fears, from the pure intensity of his emotion, one that doesn’t even have a name, just a mix of sorrow and loss and fear and deep, keening pain.

He realizes Logan is still there, has dropped to the floor with him, and he feels guilty at pulling him down too, realizing he’s still gripping his arm, probably hard enough it hurts, and between breaths he gasps out an apology.

“It’s perfectly fine, Remus. You can hold on as long and as tight as you need. Do you want me to get someone else? I… know you are not fond of me.” He shakes his head, because he can’t, he can’t be left alone like this, he can’t force himself to let go, or he’ll drown again, and he’s afraid if he plummets again he will hit the ground and smash into a million pieces.

“okay. Did you have a nightmare?” Logan asks softly, and he laughs, because the last decade has been a waking nightmare, half of Roman’s entire life has been a waking nightmare, and he apparently cannot function unless he’s being tortured, because he’s fallen apart more since he’s been rescued than the entire time he was held captive!

“that’s only natural, Remus. While under such extreme duress you didn’t have time to question or think, every moment was spent on survival. Your mind is trying to process ten years of trauma all at once. It’s not easy, it’s not something your brain is made to do, it shouldn’t be something you have to experience in the first place. It is only natural that now that your body has realized it doesn’t need to expend all it’s energy on fighting, that it’s trying to understand and comprehend everything you’ve been through.” He uncurls slightly, looking up at Logan, face so different from the impassive mask he is used to, softened around the eyes and mouth, a slight frown on his lips, sympathy and worry and pain in his clouded silver eyes.

“it just got so loud. I’ve… I’ve always been shit, at dealing with it, I always get nightmares, I always… I hate sleeping, I can’t…” He’s on the edge of losing it again, and he forces himself to breathe, forces himself to take deep breaths, but he’s lost what he’s saying. He feels Logan gently squeeze his arm back, and knows he understands what he’s trying to say, at least.

“it’s ok to be angry. It’s okay to be furious. It’s ok to want to hurt the people who did this to you, it’s ok to want to destroy them, it’s ok to want your life back, it’s ok to scream and shout and punch things because it isn’t fair. Because it isn’t. It’s ok to grieve, Remus. However that looks for you, it’s ok.” Logan near whispers, and he’s silenced for a moment at the ferocity in his voice, at the venom when he spoke of the captors, and then he breaks again, surprising Logan as he falls against him, his tears reduced to sniffles now.

“I want them back. I want my parents back, I want them to know we’re safe, I want them to know what happened, I want them to have closure, they probably think we got dragged off by cougar or something, they probably think we’re dead. I want Roman to have gone to middle school, to have gotten to high school, to have tried out for every school play, because he’s such a fucking good singer and actor, I want to have helped him run lines and gone to every performance and I would have beat up anyone who made fun of him for being into theater. I want him to have gone to college or gotten an audition and ended up on broadway, and I would have been in the front row screaming, cheering him on, and so would our parents. I want to have gone to high school, have gone to college, have become an artist, an animator, done something with my life other than be a fucking lab rat, and I know it’s not fair, and I know I can’t have any of that, but I’m so damn angry because the two of us can’t stop blaming ourselves for shit that they did to us!” He yells, shaking with exhaustion, spent and empty yet again, angry tears dripping down his face. “and I hate them. Because I want to hurt them, I want to tear them apart, I want to watch them scream and writhe and beg for mercy before I kill them with my bare hands. I’m just… I’m just like them. They made me their monster and I hate myself for it.”

“No. You’re not a monster for wanting that, Remus. You aren't Them, for wanting that. You have a reason to hurt them, a damn good one, too. It’s not wrong to want revenge, though taken too far it can be damaging. They are the monsters. They had no reason to hurt you, yet they did, for their own selfish gain. That’s what makes them monsters.” Logan answers, voice shaking, but surprisingly fierce, and Remus feels him hugging him, firm and protective. “it took me a long time to learn, I still am learning, that it is ok to feel negative emotions, necessary, or you will never be able to let go of it all and move forwards. It hurts and it’s terrifying, but it gets better.”

“does it?” he asks softly, he’s so tired and broken and so far beyond caring.

“Yes. There's not a single one of us on this ship that hasn’t gone through some kind of trauma, and I swear it gets better. Not fast. Not easily. But it does.”

“What? You… but you’re so…” Remus gestured to all of Logan as he pulls back, eyes wide, and Logan lets out a humorless laugh.

“Yes, well, appearances aren’t always what they seem, are they? We each have a reason we got into the rescue and rehabilitation business. We've all lost something to the trade.” He sits silent for a moment, considering Logan, head tilted as he tries to make sense of him.

“while… while we are speaking, I would like your input on something.” Logan pauses, and Remus nods for him to continue, a bit wary. “I know you dislike me, for obvious reasons, but I do not wish you to be afraid of me. I… is there anything I can do differently, anything I can do to make you more comfortable in my presence, I… anything you need, just ask it.”

“oh.” He hadn’t been expecting that. He doesn’t know how to answer. He feels more at ease with Logan now, after he had talked him down from his panic, had helped so much, but he’s afraid that in the light of day, he won’t be able to help himself, help the fear, help the instinctual panic at the way he speaks, moves, acts. “it’s… it’s not you. You’re… fine.” He mumbles, fiddling with his sleeve. “you… I mean, I get it. You were protecting him, and I get that. I… wasn’t at my most lucid. I don’t mean what I said, anymore. I know you weren’t… weren’t trying to hurt me. Even if I can’t quite forgive you for it yet, I’m not… mad… about it anymore.”

“then what is it, Remus? You don’t have to tell me, you don’t need to, I just… I want to be able to help.” Logan asks, reaching out, and he doesn’t pull away, as Logan slowly rests a hand atop his.

“it’s not even to do with you, really. It’s… Him. The Scientist.” He says, nearly whispers, irrationally afraid that saying the name will summon him. “he… he moved, like you do. Had the same, I don’t know, the same sound to him that you usually do. But you don’t sound like that now. You don’t… you don’t make me think of Him now.” He replies, staring at the ground, aware of Logan’s gentle exhale, close to a sigh.

“He was probably the same race as me. Straevion. We are… curious, intellectual. We learn things very fast and very thoroughly. Most of us become scientists or engineers or mathematicians. We love exploring, discovering, studying. And many of us are ethical, interacting and learning from different species we encounter, respecting and studying the cultures, the language, the worlds. We thrive on learning, really. But there are many who see themselves as above, as better than, because we are more technologically advanced than many worlds, therefore those worlds are lesser, those peoples lesser. They see other races as not really other peoples at all, just animals. It’s wrong, and horrendous, and despicable, and I hate that the Council that rules our world does nothing to stop it. That’s why I do this, Remus. Because somebody has to stop it. I know that it’s a reflex. That it is ingrained that my general appearance equals pain, but I will never knowingly hurt you. And if I accidentally hurt you, tell me immediately so I can rectify the situation and avoid causing harm in the future. I swear it.” Logan’s voice is serious and heated, and passionate, and a smile pulls at the corners of Remus’s lips, because Logan is so much different than Him. He just has to try and remember that, try and push past his first instinct to run.

“ok.” He whispers, meeting Logan’s eyes for a moment, before looking away, though it was long enough to see the slight smile on his own face, enough to see Logan once again understood without him having to say all the words what he meant. “I, um. I came out here for some water, before I, y’know, broke down. I’m… sorry. For unloading all that. On you.” He mumbles, face going a bit red.

“Oh, of course. You’re perfectly fine, Remus, I am happy to listen and help talk you through your thoughts, if that is something that helps.” Logan replies, getting to his feet, reaching out a hand to help him up. Remus hesitates for a moment before taking it, a bit wobbly on his feet, as he settles on one of the stools at the kitchen island, realizing the light has gotten brighter. It must be early morning. No wonder he was so tired, he hadn’t slept at all, and he’d had an emotional breakdown. He runs a hand through his already ruffled hair, letting out a soft groan.

Logan sets a glass of water on the counter before him, and he slowly sips at it, despite his desire to chug it. Still, he empties it quickly, and Logan quietly refills it for him. He rests his head on his arms atop the counter, letting out another long sigh, tiredness filling every inch of his bones, but his mind is still whirring a thousand miles a minute, the reason he couldn’t sleep in the first place, he was never able to silence his mind.

“You have insomnia.” Logan says, though it has the hint of a question. He nods, enjoying the feel of the cool counter against his forehead. The luxury of having space is incredible.

“where are we going?” he asks, suddenly, curious, his mind wandering and trying to focus on anything other than the thoughts in the dark spaces.

“Pardon?”

“I mean, we’re on a spaceship, yeah? You can’t just be drifting pointlessly.” He gasps, shooting upwards. “Is there a window? Like, can you see out, into the stars and stuff? Galaxies and planets and stars, oh my!” he giggles slightly to himself, realizing he’s losing it a little, loopyness setting in a bit. Logan just chuckles, raising an eyebrow.

“There is. We have a star map, where we chart our courses. The room also doubles somewhat as an observatory, with rounded, slightly tinted windows, so the light of passing suns and stars don’t damage anyone’s eyes. Virgil still can’t tolerate the brightness, his kind is especially sensitive to light. As for a course, we are currently heading towards a small, mostly plains biome planet known as Drakkia. We intend to stock up on supplies, as well as gather resources and information. Also some new clothes for the two of you, as well as things to decorate your rooms, if you like. If… you intend on staying, anyways.” His eyes are wide as he stares through Logan, imagination running wild, because the thought of stepping off a ship, feeling actual, solid land beneath his feet, feeling a sun on his skin, even though it’s not his sun, still… still.

“Remus?” He realizes he’s crying again, and he shakes his head, snapping back to reality, smile bittersweet.

“it’s been ten years since I stepped foot on a planet. Our whole world was the cell, the lab, and the testing rooms.” He says softly, just barely catching the stricken look on Logan’s face, the flash of anger that vanishes quickly as he takes a deep breath.

“well. You are no longer confined anymore. We will arrive in approximately two days. That being said, I can show you the observatory later. I am the chief navigator, if you are interested in how the ship itself flies and works.” He perks up again at that, excited.

“I loved building things. I even made a few robots, before. Always got in trouble for taking things apart to figure out how they worked. Wouldn’t’ve been a problem, cept I could never put it back together right. Started a loooot of fires.” Logan chuckles again, shaking his head.

“Do your best not to light anything on fire while onboard, please.” Remus snorts, head thumping back down against the counter, giving a thumbs up.

“Lo, did you start the coffee already? Oh. Hi.” Virgil, sounding a bit tired himself, and he gave a small wave without removing his head from the counter.

“I did not.” Wait.

“Coffee?! You have coffee!? I was gonna fall asleep on the stool, and there’s caffeine here!?” He shrieks, glancing between the two slightly taken aback aliens with wide, excited eyes.

“Um. Yup. No one else aboard can really handle it, it’s a little like poison to them, but I’m less physical, of a being so it doesn’t do much. I take it you want some?” Virgil asks, clearly holding back a snicker.

“I was hoping you would get some actual sleep instead of choosing to stay awake via drugs that would literally make my heart explode.” Logan replies, looking sternly at them both. Earlier, that look would have set his heart racing, his pulse panicking, but now, that fear is easy to push through with a scoff.

“What kind of a heathen are you? Coffee is the drink of the gods. It’s barely a drug, have you ever had Meth? Now that is a drug that will get you buzzed. Heroin isn’t so bad, though, it mostly just makes you feel good and sleepy. Must be why they didn’t use it as often. Acid though,” he shivers at the thought, “that just is wild. I always had a bad time with that one.” He looks up, and realizes Logan’s face has darkened again, and Virgil is looking at him with mild concern and something soft, before he turns away, and pulls out the cups without commenting.

“Remus… “ Logan starts, but sighs, trailing off and shaking his head. He’s about to say something else, when he hears a scream from down the hall and his head whips around.

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fairytalesofavalon · 3 years

Text

for myself

Summary: A master thief from the Kingdom of Virtue breaks into a nobleman's house, set on stealing a priceless necklace. Pondering just how it all led to this point in his life and how it could have been different.

Warnings: talk of executions and being executed, being branded, generalized anxiety, fear, PDSD, and trauma.

Short Story: 3676 words

For Myself

The ornate black box on the center of the table made my fingers itch. I had planned on searching the rest of the room first. Plenty of drawers and surfaces to sift through and large windows that were a quick escape route. But I couldn’t help myself, that box was just too tempting. I snapped the lid open, revealing the large necklace lying in the center. Pure silver, a large onyx mounted at the center, surrounded by amethysts, it was intoxicating, almost hypnotising. An heirloom of House Everfey. I picked it up, losing myself in the gleam of the gems.

“There you go, Lamorak. Another for your personal collection.” I whispered to the empty room. “And one less for Mordred.”

That man deserved it anyway. A familiar joy sprung to life as I twisted my gloved hands around the silver. My face, what I could see of it behind the hood and scarf, reflected in the large black gem. I could only imagine how he would react to the oldest piece in his collection disappearing. Lord Everfey would tear this city apart to find this. I can’t wait to see the chaos. The anticipation grew to the point where I was nearly jumping with joy.

That feeling dissipated the moment I heard voices outside the room. Instantly, that joy turned to fear. The only hiding space I would fit inside was a cabinet, an overly obvious hiding spot. There had to be something else.

The knob seemed to screech as it turned. No choice left, I shut the box, slipping inside the cabinet. The door was barely shut behind me before I heard the hinges to the room scream.

I held my breath, watching through the slits in the cabinet door as two sets of footsteps echoed around the room. One strolled into view, a tall man, wearing an overly gaudy and bright red coat. He took a seat at the table in the center, watching the ornate box. His lips curled into a snarl as he aggressively tapped the table. It was understandable. Redwoolfe had his personal guard look like complete fools just a month ago. For a split second, I thought about what would happen if he found me in here. But I stopped myself. It wouldn’t be good, that’s all I needed to know.

“I want him alive, Lawrence,” a voice out of my view said. “I understand your frustration with Virtue’s Shadow, but he’s more valuable than a corpse. If we-”

The other stood up suddenly, jarring the table. “What, have him executed. Everything’s gone too far. Crime’s been on the rise for years now since he appeared.” Lawrence sighed, rubbing his temple. “At this point, I don’t think that thing is even human. He’s like a living shadow, chaos incarnate. That thing won’t stop until he’s dead. He’ll die anyway. Why risk him escaping?”

The other strolled over to my hiding spot, the distance causing him to look like a lump of black. Lord Mordred Everfey, I tensed up at the thought of his name alone. For a very brief moment, I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. Maybe it was the mention of me needing to die, or Mordred so close to me, but my head started spiraling. They knew I was in here. That had to be it, Mordred was just dragging this out to mess with my head. I nearly sighed with relief when he just leaned against the door.

Mordred was nearly as worked up as I was, anxiously drumming his fingers against the wooden frame of the cabinet. Each tap nearly made me jump, but I held still by some miracle. There was a very, very, long pause before he spoke again.

“He’s human, Lawrence. That means he can be reasoned with, bribed, threatened.”

Lawrence just laughed. “Bribed, did you really just say that. Virtue’s Shadow has stolen enough money to buy an entire province and he still hasn’t stopped-”

“It was an example,” Mordred forced out through gritted teeth. “What I mean is he’s not some wraith swooping in and stealing whatever he wants. He’s human.” As if to prove a point, he picked up the box. “Just a few moments ago, we both saw what was in here.” He slid the box over to Lawrence. “That is the most valuable piece in my collection. If he’s targeting anything tonight, it would be this. Virtue’s Shadow couldn’t have just manifested in this room then disappeared.”

I leaned closer as Lawrence undid the latch, lid tilted back to reveal an empty velvet interior. For a brief, joy filled moment, nothing happened. Mordred and Lawrence just stared down at the empty box in shock. Then they looked at each other. Another wave of silence passed as paranoia started to set back in. If they checked in here, I was dead. I was barely breathing, waiting for them to realize what was going on. For them to search this room, find me.

“H-how did he…” Mordred mumbled.

“Screw how he did it, he’s probably on his way out right now. Have the entire manor locked down, no one leaves here until he is found.” Lawrence stormed out of the door after that. Mordred followed soon after.

Only after I heard the door shut did I sigh with relief and slip out of my hiding place. There was a spring in my step as I made my way to the window. Partly out of relief and partly out of fear. I long overstayed my welcome. It was foolish really. The moment I stepped inside, I should have grabbed the box and ran. But I’d trade anything to see that expression on their faces again. And now that it’s safe, I smiled. They really are fools. The necklace seemed to grow heavier in my pocket. I couldn’t help myself but reach inside, tracing my finger across the surface of the smooth stones. After a few moments though, I remembered that I really needed to be going.

The window was firmly locked. Not that I expected it to be open or anything. I carefully maneuvered the small metal piece into the lock, holding it in place while my other pick did the real work. Whenever it was safe, I usually timed myself. Once, I got it down to-

“I’m assuming you’re Virtue’s Shadow.”

I couldn’t help but freeze, cursing in my head. In a split second my head raced to boiling anger at myself, to anger at him, then fear, before I stuffed all of that deep inside and turned around. A man stood in the doorway, tall, black hair, pale skin and silver eyes, Mordred. That fear came back really quick, mind reeling back nine years. My entire body tensed up at the memory, fire, smoke, that reek of copper and salt, that slick feeling on my hands...

I blinked, repressing the near overwhelming sensation. He didn’t know, I was just shocked to be caught, he needed to think that. I gave that man my best fake smile, somehow keeping my voice steady through the lingering fear. “Lord Everfey, so nice to finally meet you. I did see you back at Lord Redwoolfe’s ball, but I doubt you saw me.” As I spoke, I scrambled for some kind of escape plan. I had contingencies, but none that anticipated Mordred catching me.

“And I assume you heard every word of our conversation.”

That was it, that was my escape. “Of course I did.” I kept my voice steady. “Your friend really is right, Mordred. I’m not able to be reasoned with. Maybe I’m not even human.” My gaze trailed over to the lock for a moment. Just one more pin and I’d have the window open. A few more seconds, I could stall him for that long. “Maybe I am just the will of chaos created-”

There was a very loud and sudden bang from behind me. All the tension in my body released at once. I jumped, teeth grinding, lock snapping back in place from my sudden movement. By the time I actually did turn around, all I could focus on was his smile.

“Yeah, you’re human, boy.”

I glanced down at the lock. He’d be on top of me by the time I managed to get it open. That made me freak out. I took in a shaky breath, exhaling in sputtered bursts. My mind was scrambling, heart pounding in my ears. This wasn’t going to be good, but I needed to get out right now. It was either this window or the doorway he was standing in.

I grabbed that same, heavy box on the table. “Try telling everyone else that.”

He didn’t even have time to react before I smashed the box against the window, glass flying everywhere. Before he could process what happened, I jumped out. It was a second floor window, I wouldn’t die. Though for a brief moment, rain and wind rushed around me as I fell before I finally hit the ground.

I stumbled as I landed, breaking out into a run right as my feet touched the ground. It was the middle of the night, rain and fog only making it harder to see. Half the gardens were a slippery mess of mud and dew covered grass. A mess that I only made worse by running through it.

My footsteps squelched as I tore through the gardens. Weaving around all the barely visible fenced off flowers and bushes. The sound of my own footsteps in the mud set me off. I hated it. But if I tried to be subtle, it would slow me down. It was only a matter of time before they all knew I was here. Being quick and loud was better than me being caught.

Mordred screaming after me from the window only made me shutter worse. In an instant, hazy lights swarmed around me, shining through the rain. Great, I wasn’t even over the manor’s wall and they were already after me.

Cursing myself for the… What was I up to now, the third time tonight. I darted for the fence, trying to pull myself over the giant wall of wrought iron. The edges were slick, cutting into my gloves as I desperately tried to hold on. My feet slipped along the edge, the mud on the bottom of my boots not making it any easier. All the while, those lights were getting closer. I could make out the silver armor, the rain hammering down on them. Their confused shouting ringing above all of that. None of it helped the panic slowly building inside of me. I tried to stay calm, to plan my next move, but I couldn’t. My legs flailed frantically against the smooth surface, desperately clawing for some foothold.

Eventually, my foot finally caught hold of a horizontal support. I pushed off of it, scrambling over the rest in one motion. Water splashed around me as I landed. It kicked up again as I ran down the flooded cobblestone that made up the streets. It wasn’t long before I heard footsteps coming after me, echoing through the puddles and pouring rain.

I took a sharp turn off the main road, dodging through alleyways and side streets. Every single time I lost them, some other patrol would spot me and it would start all over again.

My lungs burned, exhaustion clawing at me. I needed to lose them, right now. One dark alleyway in particular caught my attention as it hurled towards me. Without thinking, I ran down it, nearly smacking face first into the large wall at the end. A dead end, but they were closing in. I couldn’t go back.

A few soggy crates littered the opening. I ducked behind one, pressing my back against the rotting side. Right as they approached, I drew my dagger. Not once had I ever used it in a fight, but if it came down to that, at least I’d have a weapon. It was a terrifying thought, but so was what they would do to me if they did bring me in.

My breathing came out in rapid, ragged, breaths. If it hadn’t been for the sound of pouring rain, they would have caught me by that alone. For at least ten agonizing minutes, I heard guards pass by the alley a few times. Every single time, I squeezed my eyes shut, mentally preparing myself for the possibility that they would find me. The footsteps always passed, my head still shrieking that they might come back, find me, drag me off to… I bit my tongue, forcefully drawing myself out of the thought.

Only after I didn’t hear anything for two minutes did I relax. Then I smiled and laughed and laughed. Tears streamed down my face. It really is terrifying, running, hiding, knowing one wrong move on a job could land me in line for the chopping block.

But once that fear was gone, all I could think about was how much I enjoyed every moment of it.

The evening after, I took a walk. Nothing special, I just wanted to watch the aftermath of the previous night. Three patrols already passed by me, another heading right for me. I hadn’t even been on the streets for five minutes. A bit boring I guess, but better than nothing. Most of the shops had been closed for at least an hour. It was impressive how terrified they could be. It’s just how it is now. One year ago, half the population would still be walking in the street. Well, this was still strange, there was still an hour left until sunset. There should be some people out at least.

Then I heard the bells ring in the center of the square. Right, they’d close early for this. One ring, a few people came out of their homes. Two, they all ran down the streets, right to the city’s center square. Three, I turned around, walking in the other direction, trying not to count. That didn’t stop me. Four, five, six, then silence, I just sighed with relief. It was less than normal. This was common and I was used to it, but that didn’t mean I had to like it. Punishments, they were public. People said it’s to discourage criminals, and it does work to a degree, I have to admit.

Another sigh of relief escaped me as I turned down a less crowded sidestreet leading towards the edge of the city. The grey stones became more worn down, moss growing between the cracks. The people down this part of the city kept their heads down, shuffled back into their homes. Some didn’t though, most hurried off to the square. Even the people here bought into all the lies Virtue fed people.

They weren’t really lies, I reminded myself. Those idiots just have to draw a line, they just draw it in the wrong place. Everyone on the chopping block did do something wrong. But they don’t care who, why.

I was caught up in my own head, I hadn’t even noticed one of them following me. A boy, not a year younger than me, beat up cloak draped over his small frame. It made me smile in a way, a bit of nostalgia. Really made me think about how terrible I was when I first entered this line of work.

He approached a bit quicker than I would have expected. But maybe I should have expected that. This boy wasn’t good after all. Then my thoughts snapped onto the bells. That one mistake last night could have landed me there. One mistake and it would have been my head rolling off the chopping block. One mistake nine years ago, when I was a scared child who just wanted something to eat that night. Publicly shamed, brand scorched into my skin, hands cut off. I really didn’t want to think about it and I didn’t want to think about what would happen to this boy if he had targeted anyone else.

He passed by me, bumping into me slightly. Had I not known, I wouldn’t have even felt his hand slip into my pocket. Subtle, maybe this wouldn’t be a waste of my time. I grabbed his wrist right as he pulled his hand out, twisting it until he stopped.

That caused him to freeze, gaze darting from my face to the sack of coins he just tried to lift off of me. His eyes widened, instead of running or fighting, he just stood there. For a moment, I just stared at him. Holes and tears dotted his black cloak, dirt splotched on his skin, but that giant brand scorched across his neck was what made me pause. A hand, one single coin in its palm, petty theft if I remember correctly.

“Is everything alright?” A voice asked behind us. A pair of guards stood behind us, one of them realizing what was going on right away. His expression went somber as he reached for the boy in black. “I swear, you criminals never learn-”

Before I could stop myself, I was standing in front of the boy. “It’s a misunderstanding, sir.” That sir felt like acid in my mouth, but I dealt with it. “He wasn’t stealing.”

“Are… Are you sure?” He glanced at the boy, then back to me. Only then did he lean close and whisper in my ear. “Did he threaten you?”

“No, it’s… it’s only a misunderstanding. Sorry to bother you.”

Neither of them really looked like they bought the lie, but what else could they do. Both of them just shrugged and walked away. Only after they were long out of sight did I grab the boy’s arm and drag him down an alley. He was still trembling, wide eyed, clutching my pouch of stolen coins.

I held my hand out. “If you would, I think you owe me anyway.”

The boy handed me the sack of coins, staring down at his tattered black boots. “Thank you.”

My gaze drifted back to the giant mark on his neck. If he had gotten caught again, even for something like this, it would have been his life instead of something like that. His other arm was buried in his sleeve as well. I did my best not to stare. That’s how it was in this kingdom, there was right and there was wrong. But that left a lot of us behind. The why never mattered, just punishment without mercy.

I bit my lip, for a moment just wanting to have a conversation with someone who might understand. Only one thing came to mind though. “How did you get that brand?”

He rubbed his hand across the side of his neck. “I was just hungry, I-I just wanted something to eat. Then-”

I held my hands up. “No, I shouldn’t have asked.” Being dragged into the square, screaming in pain as they pressed a scorching hot brand into his neck. I rubbed my neck, remembering the dozens of times that might have been me. It wasn’t the kind of thing I did, but I pressed the sack of coins into his hands. “Keep it, I have plenty.”

He tore the pouch open. If the boy had any sense, that could feed him for a month. “I-I can’t accept this.”

“Just take it. Don’t spend it all in one place either.”

The boy smiled, still shaking. “You probably stole it all in one place though.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Fine, I did. But people like us have to be careful with spending. And be careful our targets don’t notice us following them.”

His gaze dropped down to his boots. After that, I didn’t know what else to say. Talking isn’t exactly a skill I’m great in. “Just… Be careful.” What else could I really say. I turned and walked away, leaving the boy in the alley.

He whispered one last thing as I left.. “May Virtue’s Shadow bless you.”

I nearly rolled my eyes. That comment always felt strange. A mixture of guilt, fear, joy, so many people expected so much out of me. A wraith who steals everything he touches, motivated by nothing but greed. A shadow, one that all the others left behind by this kingdom look up to. Both explanations were foolish. I was human and I was waging a one man war against an entire kingdom. Well, I guess that made me a fool.

“Thank you.” That was all I said as I walked away.

They wanted you to be perfect. One mistake and they branded you a criminal. That same brand burned into my head. The same one my mother got.

“She made a choice, the right choice,” I reminded myself. “It wasn’t a mistake.” And that child she left behind turning to theft just to feed himself wasn’t a mistake either. Her little Lamorak. She’d probably be disappointed to see me now. A thief, stealing because he loved it.

“What else can I do,” I whispered to myself. “They put her through things no one deserved.” My mind snapped back years and years ago. Her face whenever someone threw a brick through our window. When she had to clean up a decapitated pig’s head off our porch. This kingdom ostracized her for one decision. And what did she do when I stood up for her. She’d just smile, tell me she deserved it. It wasn’t fair, it never was. She wouldn’t want me to do this.

I bit my tongue. “It’s not for her. It’s for myself.” For everything they put her through, they made me watch. That wasn’t even enough for them. When bandits raided our village, burned it to the ground, they made her stay… He made her stay… I blinked, suppressing the memory.

Why wouldn’t I enjoy watching them scramble, seeing me as some wraith, as Virtue’s Shadow. After all they put me through, why wouldn’t I want to fight for myself.

#fiction #my writing #writers on tumblr #writing #fantasy #long post #anxiety #ptsd

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